They Who Inherited the Earth
by freya1867v2
Summary: The ingredients for the Metalocalypse are strewn to all corners of the world. Only the strong hand of fate can organize them. No slash (unless bromance counts), preklok, full character cast also includes Nathan, Murderface, and Pickles. Previously posted under freya1867, updated Fridays.
1. 1) It all started in Norway

ONE: IT ALL STARTED IN NORWAY

* * *

A chilly wind cut through the late-May air, numbing the sore muscles in Skwisgaar Skwigelf's arms and hands. The adrenaline rush from being on stage waned, and the sensation of his blond, shoulder-length hair brushing against the base of his neck failed to quell the shiver that rode up his spine. As he rubbed his arms and set his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, he couldn't help but wish that, like his band mates, he brought a coat.

Even though a few minutes of labor generated a small portion of body heat, he could no longer ignore that his black tee shirt was thinner than usual. He hoped that he and the other members of Gognogmug would soon subject themselves to the godsend of a heater in Tallak's van, now that their gear and instruments were loaded. Said drummer seemed also to entertain the idea, but neither he nor Skwisgaar were the one that made the band's decisions. That particular role was left for Arvid, their vocalist and frontman.

"Fuck, that went well," Arvid harshly spoke as he slammed the van's backdoor. "What say we go back in to celebrate?"

Egil, the bassist, rubbed his neck and turned away. Tallak then replied with a minor slur, "Skwisgaar's too young. The owner said they'd only let him in for the show."

Arvid's dark eyes darted towards Skwisgaar, inciting tense anxiety. "I'm going to go back in and buy some beer, then. Swing the van around."

"You ought to bring a jacket next time," Tallak eyed Skwisgaar pointedly as he glanced over his shoulder from the driver's seat. "Lillehammer is still cold, this time of the year."

Skwisgaar nodded, but didn't meet Tallak's gaze. None of them knew that Skwisgaar was forced to buy his own meals, mend his own clothes, and wake himself up for school every morning. The only thing they knew at _all_, in fact, was that Skwisgaar played the guitar and he played it well.

They scooped him up a mere two weeks ago, after witnessing an onstage quarrel between Skwisgaar and the rhythm guitarist of his former band. Skwisgaar went from the middle of a solo to berating the other guitarist, who was nearly in tears. When he left the stage that night, he found himself immediately surrounded and being sold on the idea of joining Gognogmug. He agreed right away, as soon as Arvid made it clear that he would be the _only_ guitarist.

Gognogmug tiptoed around him for their first few practices, but soon caught on that Skwisgaar was not perpetually outraged. They relaxed—all but Arvid. When he learned that Skwisgaar was easy-going when granted creative freedom and input, the snide remarks began. Skwisgaar had a very good feeling that, just like every other band he'd been in, this one wouldn't work out.

The van's passenger door slammed shut, and Arvid's gruff voice greeted his ears. "Let's get out of here. I think the guy noticed me swipe a couple cigars."

The shopkeeper glared suspiciously out the front window, and seemed to consider calling them back. However, before the man could make up his mind, Tallak slammed the van in gear and they left the place in thick, black smoke.

Arvid pulled the tab on his first beer of the night. As their singer commenced to down it all in one go, Skwisgaar and Egil sunk further down in their seat. Neither of them much appreciated Arvid when he drank. He made it his mission to pick on Skwisgaar, and ever since Egil stuck up for him the weekend before, he too was shown no mercy.

Arvid burped loudly when he finished his beer, causing everyone else in the van to wrinkle their noses in distaste. He then crushed the beer can in his hand and tossed it over his shoulder, narrowly missing Egil.

Tallak frowned. "I hope you're going to pick that up."

"Later," Arvid waved him off before detaching another beer from the six-pack.

Skwisgaar gazed out the window after Tallak gave up the argument, and couldn't help but feel as though something was out of place. The people that roamed the town in daylight hadn't looked like this. . .

Arvid grunted. "Can you believe those weirdoes? You'd think they'd have the common sense to wait until dark before they flock toward that church."

Tallak smirked at the singer. "Didn't you try to get into that building, once?"

"Ja, a few years ago," Arvid replied unabashedly. "I wanted to see what kind of faith it was. Judging by the way they're dressed, I bet you they're some derivative of the Satanic church."

"Laveyan, you mean?" Egil asked with furrowed eyebrows.

Arvid shrugged. "Don't think so. They would have let me in, wouldn't they, if I showed interest?"

"What did they do?"

"Just turned me away," Arvid snipped. "I told them over and over again that I wanted to come in, but they just kept pushing me back."

Tallak narrowed his eyes in thought. "I heard a rumour once that you need to be born into their faith in order to belong. Maybe that's why you weren't allowed in."

Arvid chortled cruelly. "It's just as well. Can you imagine having to wear those robes all year round? I mean, they'd be too thin for winter, too thick for summer. . . they might be comfortable on a night like this, though."

They pulled into Arvid's driveway. His parents either went out for the evening or retired to bed, not that Skwisgaar saw much of them. The band spent most of their time down in the basement, either drinking, sleeping, practicing, or smoking pot. Skwisgaar had yet to actually take a toke of Arvid's weed, but only because he didn't need to in order to get high. The basement teemed with it.

The strong, stale smell of marijuana hit Skwisgaar as he helped pack their things down. Once everything was cleared, he lazily collapsed on Arvid's broken couch, leaned back, and shut his eyes. Arvid opened another beer and threw Egil and Tallak their own. Skwisgaar heard three cracks, and then Egil speak. "Cheers."

The three older boys drank to their successful gig. A few smacking lips and a small burp followed it, and then a soft chuckle. "Kid's dead asleep, I think."

"He put on a good set, though," Tallak quietly told Arvid, as though worried he'd wake their retired guitarist. "He deserves to sleep."

"I figured he'd want to celebrate with us."

"Just give him a few minutes—"

"Skwisgaar," Arvid sternly spoke. "You awake?"

Skwisgaar opened one eye.

"Do you want a beer? I got enough for you."

Skwisgaar shook his head. He had no desire whatsoever to face Arvid when he finally became drunk. If Skwisgaar fell asleep, or at least pretended to be out for the night, he could maybe avoid the inevitable.

"All right." To Skwisgaar's surprise, Arvid didn't sound angry or annoyed at all. "More for me then, I guess."

The stillness that followed this proclamation voiced the others' thoughts perfectly. ___'Great.'_

Skwisgaar peered around through his eyelashes. To his left, Arvid opened another beer. Across from him, in a ratty recliner, Tallak eyed Arvid warily; lines became more and more pronounced on Arvid's forehead as he pounded beer after beer back.

Afterward, he crossed his arms. "I'm out of beer."

Tallak visibly braced himself. "Well, I'm sorry dude, but I've had too much to drink. If I get pulled over again, they're going to take my license away—"

"Well, my record is clean." Arvid hoisted himself to his feet. "Give me your keys."

Tallak's hand went immediately to his pocket. "No way! You've had _way_ too much! You'll crash it."

Skwisgaar decided to 'wake up', now that he would not be Arvid's subject of degradation for the evening. Egil did the same, he noticed.

Arvid took a step towards the drummer, who immediately put his hands up in defence. "Look, if you want some bad enough, we could walk. It's not like it's very far to that other place—"

Through the fog the alcohol provided Arvid, he processed this proposal. When he saw that everyone's attention rested on him, he jerked his head in the direction of the staircase. "Come on, let's go, then."

Egil grunted as he stood up and followed. Skwisgaar was behind him, but stopped with one foot on the bottom step when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. Skwisgaar turned back to face Tallak, and found the drummer holding his coat. "Here, you're going to need this."

His blue eyes studied the coat before hesitantly taking it. "I don't think—"

"I've got a sweater. You'll need this more." Tallak clapped him on the shoulder again before brushing past him in pursuit of Arvid and Egil. Skwisgaar held the man's jacket forlornly in his hands. When Tallak disappeared, his gaze fell down onto the article of clothing he held. The longer he stared at it, the closer his eyebrows moved together.

He cursed Tallak for being so kind. Skwisgaar learned early on in his venture to be a guitarist that he should not grow close to other members in his bands. He never stayed long, and the more detached he remained, the easier telling them he found a better deal with some other hopeful group of musicians was. Gognogmug was going to be hard to leave, when the time came. Arvid, Skwisgaar would have no problem whatsoever letting go. In fact, he hoped that once his time in Gognogmug ran its course, he never saw the putrid man again. Tallak, however. . . might be harder.

"Hey!" a harsh voice came from the top of the stairs. "What's taking you, down there? Let's go! I'm starting to sober up."

A lurch of the stomach accompanied Skwisgaar's sneer. However, he did not dare defy Arvid when the prospect of unwanted sobriety loomed before him. So, instead of arguing, he threw Tallak's coat over his shoulders and ran up the stairs to join the rest of the band.

They stepped back into the chilling night, and were on their way down the street once Arvid had locked up the house behind them. Skwisgaar, Tallak, and Egil merely followed at a healthy distance. The Norwegian wind pummelled against them, and Skwisgaar pulled Tallak's coat tighter around him. An arm shot out as Arvid came to a stop. Skwisgaar looked up in confusion as it connected with his chest, but then saw how intently the singer stared ahead. Candlelight could be seen through the stained windows of that church and quiet chanting heard, but this was not what captured Arvid. It was what sat on the front steps, or _who_, more accurately. Skwisgaar squinted into the darkness, and saw that it was a little kid, probably only a few years younger than himself.

It was not the kid himself that compelled Skwisgaar to speak, but what he was holding. "___Pfft_, look at his grandpa's guitar."

Arvid smirked and looked at Skwisgaar appreciatively. For a moment, Skwisgaar assumed that Arvid would take the comment in stride and they would continue on their way to the liquor store. Instead, he chuckled, stepped off the sidewalk, and made his way towards the church. "Come on. This could turn out better than getting drunk."

Egil made a sound of disgust. "Arvid, _no_. He's just a little kid—"

A glare silenced him.

Beside Egil, Tallak anxiously tucked a loose strand of hair in behind his ear as Arvid steadily tread along the beaten path. "We ___should_ try to stop him. . ."

It was unanimously decided, and so Egil, Tallak, and Skwisgaar followed Arvid. However, by the time they reached the church, he already began his taunting.

"Do your parents go to church here?"

Skwisgaar was surprised that Arvid's harsh voice did not cause the young boy to jump where he sat. Instead, he stopped casually strumming his guitar, and slowly brought his gaze to meet Arvid's. Given the immaturity about his appearance and his miniscule size, Skwisgaar mentally placed his age as somewhere around ten.

Arvid crossed his arms. "Well? Do your parents attend this church?"

The boy failed to answer. Instead, his pale blue eyes moved away from Arvid and traveled over the other band members, who loomed unwillingly in the background. They had merely grazed Skwisgaar when Arvid snapped his fingers impatiently in front of the boy's face. "Don't speak much, do you? Maybe _this_ will loosen your tongue."

Skwisgaar's mouth fell open when he saw Arvid rip the guitar from the boy's grasp. However, instead of yelling at the older boy to give it back, crying about being stripped of his possession, or anything else that Skwisgaar was sure ___he'd_ do in this situation, the kid remained silent, his face blank and unreadable. For all the emotion he showed, nothing was out of the ordinary.

Arvid became frustrated quickly, irritated at his inability to force a reaction from the young boy. This did not end his endeavour, though. "Wait a minute. . . I've seen you walking around with that guy with the hat. You're the reverend's son, aren't you? How come you aren't in there, drinking pig's blood with the rest of them?"

Nothing.

"Let's _go_, Arvid," Tallak whispered. "Give him back his guitar, and let's get out of here."

Arvid apparently wanted nothing more than to bother this kid further, but his lack of effect discouraged him. His eyes darted back and forth as he weighed his choices, but before he could make up his mind, the double doors at the top of the stairs opened.

Having been concentrating on Arvid's ploy, Skwisgaar failed to notice that the chanting ended. As he looked up at the equally stunned congregation with wide mouth and eyes, he urged his feet to carry him away. With the multitude of looks he received from the church members, he didn't even think that stopping at Arvid's house would suffice. In fact, the thought of sprinting the three-hundred mile distance back home seemed all the more appealing in this moment.

From the crowd above, there emerged a woman. She descended the stairs towards the small boy and placed a hand upon his shoulder. Her gaze never once wavered from Arvid, and the intense lifelessness behind her pupils pushed _them_ all back. Skwisgaar waited for the woman to say something—anything—but just like the boy, she seemed incapable of speech.

A hand closed around Skwisgaar's upper arm. "Let's leave."

Skwisgaar couldn't think of a better idea. Once Tallak prompted him, he found himself running across the lawn, closely followed by the rest of Gognogmug. He did not stop, slow, or glance back over his shoulder until Arvid's house came into view. When they reached the entrance, Arvid fumbled shakily with his house key. After stepping inside and slamming the door behind him, he sunk down against it.

Skwisgaar bent forward onto his knees in attempt to catch his breath. He peeled the leather off his sticky skin and dropped it listlessly onto the floor. What could he say, besides '_I told you so'_?

Something was wrong with Arvid though, and this rendered Skwisgaar speechless. He'd never seen the man so vulnerable or afraid, before. He shook from head to toe, and a fine layer of sweat shone on his forehead. He rocked back and forth ever so slightly, muttering incoherently under his breath.

"Dude, are you all right?" Tallak quietly asked.

"Did you hear it?" Arvid replied in a forlorn voice. "Did you hear what she said to me?"

As far as Skwisgaar could remember, the woman hadn't spoken a word.

"What are you talking about?"

Arvid shuddered and shook his head. "Never mind. Maybe I—Maybe I'll just go to bed."

Tallak, Egil, and Skwisgaar watched as their singer rose shakily to his feet and stumbled toward the hallway. They remained in the kitchen as he noisily descended into the basement, followed by the soft slam of his bedroom door. They glanced at each other with uncertainty, and then slowly made their own way to the lower level, where they too would try to sleep and forget about their odd night. It felt like days ago that they were on stage.

Skwisgaar closed his eyes immediately upon resting his head on the couch's armrest. Another chill ran along his spine, but this time, it had nothing to do with the coldness outside. In fact, the last things that he saw before finally losing consciousness were the icy grey eyes of the reverend's wife and the pale blues of her strange son.

Skwisgaar awoke suddenly in the night, and realized after a few brief seconds of disorientation that something was most definitely wrong. The dark basement lit up with screams, pleas, and a loud, repeated banging. He jumped up from where he lay and looked around with bleary eyes. Two silhouettes stood against Arvid's bedroom door, one pounding ruthlessly against it, and the other yelling at the top of their lungs.

"Arvid! What's going on in there?" It was Tallak.

A long string of expletives followed this question, nothing of which actually answered it. Skwisgaar flinched as a loud bang came from within the bedroom. It sounded as though Arvid ran headlong into the wall. Scurrying followed, and more light pleading. "Don't kill me, please, don't kill me. . ."

"___Arvid!_"

"Don't kill me, don't kill me, don't—oh. . . oh _God!_ _What are you ____doing?_" An ear-piercing screech followed. When the air in Arvid's lungs ran out, sobbing and heavy breathing succeeded his previous noise. "Please. . . I didn't know, _I didn't ____know__—!_"

And then there was silence.

Now that Skwisgaar's mind had been roused, he ran forward, and joined Egil and Tallak as they broke down Arvid's door, but if the blood seeping out from underneath it told them anything, it was that nothing could be done.


	2. 2) The Sunshine State

TWO: THE SUNSHINE STATE

* * *

". . .All right, great. Thank you, Caroline. And who wants to read the part of Macbeth, today?"

The class silently stared back at the teacher, all but one. At the back of the room, a thick kid nearly bursting out of the tiny desks provided by the great state of Florida fixated on the doodle in the margin of his notebook. A skull formed, with nails driven in about his brow line. Rather than pain, the skull boasted an expression of maniacal glee.

"Nathan? How about you?"

The kid's neck muscles tensed. "No thank you, I'd rather not."

A couple students tittered, forcing Nathan to further withdraw. Only when Mrs. Nocturnus leaned on his desk did his hand slow. "May I remind you that ten percent of your grade is participation?"

"I can live with a B. Thank you."

"Politeness isn't going to get you out of this one, I'm afraid. You're Macbeth."

Nathan glared at as many kids he could in one go as the teacher returned to the front of the classroom. Even though he'd quit football a few weeks ago, he needn't remind anyone that he could still kick their ass if compelled.

"Start us off, Nathan." Mrs. Nocturnus cleared her throat. "_'Blood hath been shed 'ere, now'._"

Nathan leisurely found the correct page. "Blood hath. . .blood hath been shed 'ere, now. I the olden time—"

"I', Nathan. Like in. Not I, as in you."

"There's no N."

"Keep reading."

Nathan inhaled deeply: "IdoforgetdonotmuseatmemymostworthyfriendsIhaveast rangeinfirmirywhichisnothingtothosethatknowmecomel oveandhealthtoall. . ."

The class failed to suppress their amusement as Nathan came to the end of his passage and took another deep breath before he passed out. Mrs. Nocturnus peered over her glasses. "And what is the meaning of what you just read?"

"I don't have a fu—clue."

"It means that you just read the wrong passage. Go back one and start over."

Nathan's clawed hand fell to his side, hot anger pooling into his stomach. With a growl of frustration, he pushed everything off his desk. "Fuck this! I don't wanna read Shakespeare! This guy was an asshole!"

"Nathan. . ." Mrs. Nocturnus put forth in a warning tone.

"Fuck this, and fuck you!" Nathan pointed around the room. "This is fucking bullshit. I'm outta here."

He slammed the classroom door behind him, but returned a few seconds later to collect his notebook. "I forgot this."

With nowhere else to go unless he wanted supreme shit from his mother at home, Nathan's motorcycle squealed on every turn between the high school and the only person he could turn to. None of his old buddies wanted anything to do with him, since apparently dropping football equated to contracting leprosy. He parked his bike on the lawn of a place he'd never consider calling even a dump. Its windows were long smashed out, replaced temporarily-turned-permanently by plywood, and the door had been kicked in so many times that it now relied solely on a latch to keep it closed. Not that Murderface ever worried about security. Even rats and cockroaches considered the shack beneath them. In the event that someone ever tried to enter without Murderface's awareness, they'd subject themselves to whatever booby-trap the repugnant man set up.

"Aw, you schoulda told me you were comin'. You coulda picked up a pizzcha." Murderface yawned and stretched on the couch, then sat up in panic. "Fuck, what time isch it?"

"One-thirty. Don't even fuckin' worry." Nathan crashed onto the ratty recliner, then braced himself when he felt it nearly give way. Murderface worked right after the final bell as a janitor at the school, so Nathan's one bit of consolation was that no matter how bad things got, there'd always be one other beneath him there. "I've fuckin' had it with that place. I think I'm just gonna quit. No point without football, anyway. I'm never gonna get into college, and I'm still gonna be workin' at Dimmu Burger whether or not I get my fucking diploma."

"You could alwaysch bargain with the prinschipal."

"He doesn't like me."

"Doeschn't even have to."

"What the fuck does it matter, though? Fuck it, I'm done. I can't take it anymore. I could be doing so much better."

"Like how?"

"Hey. . .if I gave you some money, would you go buy me beer?"

Murderface grinned. "Callin' in schick!"

The first three cans went down like water, but caught up very quickly to Nathan when he tossed his dozenth can. It took a couple attempts to stand. "Lemme use your phone."

"You know where it isch."

Nathan staggered out to the street with a dime. Murderface as good as owned the payphone since anytime someone tried to use it he got out his slingshot. It took Nathan a couple attempts to land the dime, then a lengthy pause with his head against the phone to remember his home number.

"Hello?"

"Hey mom."

"Nathan, where are you? I put your dinner in the fridge, and the school called again—"

"'Mnot comin' home tonight. Just so y'know."

"It's a school night, though. Are you drunk?"

"No, I'm fine."

"You're drunk."

"I'll see you tomorrow. . .maybe."

Murderface laid on the couch, one arm curled behind his head and the other hand firm on a beer. His eyes floated out of focus as he watched the C&N report unfurl before him. He burped. "I schinscherely feel that all thisch Middle East crap would be fixched a lot faschter if Busch just dropped a fuckin A bomb. Motherfuckin' Schaddam bomb. That'sch why I voted for him. He scheems schmart like that."

"You voted?"

"In a schensche. My grandma won't, scho I make her put one in for me. I schtill live in Jersey. . .technically."

Nathan still wasn't satisfied with his drunk once he finished all the beer Murderface grabbed. When the older man refused to go get more, Nathan sifted through his cupboards and fridge for whatever else he could find. Armed with tequila, he fell quiet and contemplative. "I think I'm gonna go."

"Go where? You're schmasched."

No amount of fight could convince Nathan otherwise. The highway turned into a game of concentration, with climbing speeds and complete lack of fear. And yet, without injury, he arrived at his destination. He let his bike lay on its side while he advanced to the precipice edge. Ass to a rock and hair blowing in the wind, he stared out over the water. Below, waves crashed against the cliff. Something about this place, even with all the lights of civilization behind him and the undying racket of vehicles, altered his anxiety to calmness.

He didn't like the way this world he lived in was set up. Go to school, play sports, go to college, get a job, get married, die. Why did anyone ever bother asking what he wanted to do with his life? Every acceptable option fell within that equation. What he wanted was to defy it, to live outside. . .but what did that mean? A large void, like a half-finished puzzle, formed before his eyes. He missed something, like how doctors probably felt until they discovered germs and bacteria.

As much as Nathan tried, he ignored from his first memory what dissatisfaction felt like. Maybe he was just spoiled, with nothing to fight for. Like his father, once upon a time. . .

Of course! _Of course!_ The answer was in front of him the entire time! Excited, Nathan got back onto his bike. He needed to get home and tell his parents all about it. They needed to know his life wasn't a waste, that he'd found something better to do than carry a ball down a field.

Unfortunately, while that preoccupied Nathan, his grip on the road was greatly compromised. No fear occurred to him as he blacked out in the face of bright lights and a blaring horn, nor did he feel a thing when his velocity hit zero.

* * *

He swam through dreams, heading for the surface. Someone called him from above, and someone called him back from below. Both knew his name. Unsure where to go, Nathan let himself float. The closer he got to the surface, the more he hurt. Beyond the event horizon for turning back, he twitched an eye open.

"Nathan, oh god!" His mother's face blocked the bright lights poking needles in his vision. "You're okay!"

". . .Very lucky," a nearby doctor drawled, readjusting his glasses. "Only lingering damage is to your throat, vocal cords specifically."

"Hey, big guy!" Oscar, his father, squeezed his shoulder. Nathan opened his mouth to tell his parents what he'd meant to that night—however long ago it was—but as soon as he tried to speak he lapsed into painful coughing. Blood spattered his face, then the urge to vomit bubbled it up over his neck and shoulders.

"Oh god, what's happening?" Rose shrieked with hands up to her mouth.

The doctor called a nurse over, a needle went into Nathan's arm, and he soon went under again. This time, at least, he was aware that things happened beyond him. He floated in a dark abyss, water pressure failing to collapse him. The odd ding and voice echoed from an indiscernible direction. A voice floated through his mind, a separate entity, inviting him to stay in the water forever. As tempting, he couldn't listen. Even if he tried to slip away, he'd be snagged back by alarms.

He got pulled to the surface again. His mother still remained, but this time she let common sense come before raw relief. "Nathan, don't try to speak, honey. Just come back."

Grogginess made Nathan float for the longest hours of his life. All he wanted to do while answering the doctor's questions with taps of his finger against a metal support bar on his bed was sleep. They finally let him go back under in his own terms, and when Nathan woke up again, he felt the closest to rested he could ever remember.

His mother squeezed his hand. "Are you in pain at all? I could get them to up your dose."

Nathan shook his head. It only felt like he'd totalled his throat. Before he could open his mouth to ask what the hell happened, his mother shoved a notebook under his nose.

"If you need to talk, write it down. You're still not in good enough condition. We don't want a repeat of. . .well. . ."

The details of Nathan's revelation blurred, but he still remembered the big picture. He started to scratch it down, lost heart, and wrote something else instead.

_I'm sorry._

Rose teared up. "It's okay, so long as you're still alive. Mind you, if you _ever_ do that again. . ."

Nathan laid there stoically as she leaned over to hug him. With that out of the way, he jotted down what he wanted to do with his life.

"One thing at a time, okay?" Rose replied. "I just got you back, I don't want to think about losing you again."

His father came in later with a coffee for his wife and water for his son. He still wore his work clothes. "How you feelin'?"

Nathan threw the notebook at him, but Oscar said the same thing. "Just concentrate on getting feeling better, and then we'll talk about it. Is this why you don't want to play football anymore? Because I already went through this hell in hopes that _you_ wouldn't have to."

_I want to._

"You're sure about that? You have no idea what it's like, and the Middle East isn't looking much different than 'Nam. That's more than likely where you'd go, if you signed up."

_I don't care._

"His brain must be swimming in a pool of chemicals." Rose tsked and pushed some hair out of Nathan's face. "See what you think when you get out of here."

_I wanted to do it before this happened._

"You really don't, Nathan. You have no idea how dark the world becomes after you've done a tour. . .or two."

* * *

"Hey, buddy! How'sch the throat?"

"Sore." Nathan rubbed it as he spoke. The amount of cough lozenges he ate in attempt to make it feel better caused his stomach to sour and roll about. At least he got to sleep in his own bed now, instead of in a room with three older men constantly shitting their pants. "Probably gonna be quiet a while, the doctor said."

"You schound like a chain schmoker."

"Yeah. . .I guess. Got lucky, though. Pretty much the only thing that happened to me. Broke a couple toes."

Murderface sealed his joint. "Can't win'em all, I guessch. Do you remember anything about it?"

"No." As hard as Nathan tried, everything slowly trickled away. Even everything in the hospital bed. "I'm, uh. . .when I get better, though, I'm enlisting."

"In the army? Are you joking?"

"My dad was a Marine. Went to Thailand."

"You gonna be a jarhead?"

"Dunno. See what happens, I guess."

"Maybe I'll go too! Schoot Schaddam. . ." Murderface plunged a knife into his couch. "But you gotta be in schape and schit, don't you?"

"Yeah. Like really good shape."

"Aw, damn! Damn, damn, guessch I can't."

"Wouldn't call you a pussy if you didn't. Probably couldn't handle the heat, anyway, if you wound up in Kuwait or Saudi Arabia, or something."

"Fuck you! After living here? I could handle fucking _anything_."

"Not gonna ask you to prove that."

"Fuck you, _Tonto_. Look, I'm gonna level with ya. Whatever you're looking for, you're not gonna find it there. You're bescht to juscht schtay home."

Silence ended this conversation, just like with Nathan's mother. In truth, Nathan didn't want to go to war for the sake of war, nor did he care to fight for his country. He needed a shock, something to jolt him out of his monotonous life. Perhaps put it into perspective, make him grateful of the privilege he'd been born into.


	3. 3) This Old House

THREE: THIS OLD HOUSE

* * *

"Tonight's the night! Can't you feel it?"

"For whet, exactly?"

"I dunno!" Tony stretched against the counter, cigarette dangling between his lips. "But there's something special gonna happen."

Pickles rolled joint after joint at the kitchen table. To him, it was just a regular night. The only difference from one of the parties they'd throw before they got signed was that now Snakes 'n' Barrels had thousands of dollars to throw away for favours. Pickles prepped the marijuana while Tony paced about, cocaine and alcohol already prepared. Bullets would bring the heroin, although a lot fewer people would use it.

"Wonder where Candy is." Tony dropped into a chair beside Pickles. "Said he was gonna be here at five."

"Whet're you so concerned about time, for? No one's probably gonna start rolling in 'til sunset, or so."

"I dunno. Just restless."

"Have a drink."

"Promised myself I wasn't gonna do nothin' until tonight. Kinda forgot what anticipation feels like."

Despite that, Tony wound up cracking a beer from the fridge. The two of them sitting in silence created a distortion in time. Pickles saw everything at once, as if it all burst forward from one singular point in his life: a bathtub perennially full of moonshine, Candy prancing across the stage toward his drum kit, sticks in one hand and the other held out toward the screaming audience, Bullets arguing for his right to wear round pink sunglasses, Tony squatted by a fire in the backyard roasting a hot dog and enjoying a cigarette moments before that call from the record label came. The house they all shared still stood—miraculously—and while Candy and Bullets branched out on a nearly nightly basis whenever they weren't on tour or recording, it remained the closest thing Pickles ever considered akin to home.

Despite that. . .Pickles harboured a secret.

"You wanna finish this? My fingers need a break. Heh." Pickles pushed the bag of weed and papers he'd cut over to the purple-haired bassist. With his own beer, the stairs creaked under his feet as he headed for the second floor. Living in such close quarters, Pickles was all too aware of his band members' private lives. He knew about Bullets' lingering hippy lifestyle, thanks to the single mother that raised him out west in Santa Barbara, about Tony's propensity to diddle women in their ass rather than the typical way, about Candy's fascination with homeless culture. The pictures he took on a regular basis were strewn throughout his room, distracting Pickles temporarily on his way to the drum kit. Funny the blond would find a hobby in this, considering that without Snakes 'n' Barrels, this might be the life Candy led.

Pickles traded out his beer for the sticks atop Candy's dresser. A weird mood like this always triggered a want to hammer his frustrations out on his first-choice instrument. However, with Tony directly beneath him and a promise forever ago to reinvent himself as something worth loving, the most he could manage was a series of half-hearted taps against the crash cymbal. It swivelled about and caught the sun filtering in through the window, reflecting it into Pickles' eyes. The small particles of dust floating about the room transformed to those forced from the ceiling beams at the last big concert they played. Collective hysteria from the crowd still echoed in Pickles' mind.

The fame, drugs, and women should make him happy. For as long as Pickles could remember, he dreamed about this every night before bed, as he walked to school, and when he should have paid attention in class. Music could never take a backseat, or fall into the background. No matter what, whether at a bar, watching a movie, or in his room, it ensnared him completely. So why did so many afternoons lend themselves to this familiar melancholy? Snakes 'n' Barrels ruled the Los Angeles scene, expanded their empire across California, and soon encompassed the entire country. If this wasn't a dream come true, then what _would_ be?

"Bullets is here!" Tony announced from downstairs.

Beer reclaimed, Pickles headed down to say hello. He stumbled near the top and an arm shot out to stabilize him. "Dear _Gahd_, do you two always have to do this?"

Bullets held Tony's back to the wall while they pawed at one another and jokingly groaned and grunted. The odd laugh broke the smack of their lips. "You're just jealous."

"Yeeuh, of anyone who isn't seeing this right now." Pickles shielded his eyes as he passed through to the kitchen. "Seriously, stop."

"Y'hear that, Bullets? Pickles can't handle our love."

"Aw, why not?" While Pickles sought out another beer, Bullets pressed himself against his butt. "The band that sleeps together, stays together."

"Quit it!" Pickles jostled a rack of unstable bottles as he leapt forward. "Gahd, and I thought we voted against you wearin' that patchouli crap."

Bullets merely smiled and shrugged. "Cranky today?"

"Nah, just. . ." Pickles rubbed his forehead and ignored Tony's raucous laughter. "I'onno. On edge. It's not like you guys _actually_ fuck, do you?"

They both scrunched their faces. "Ugh, not even a little."

"Just the tip." Bullets clapped Tony's shoulder on the way to the shower.

"Up _your_ ass, maybe!"

As nice as seeing Bullets with any amount of energy was, Pickles needed something to spend his on. Maybe some booze and pot would help raze it down, and then a woman, later. No matter what, though, this heavy ball inside his chest refused to relent. The only thing that ever helped in the slightest was standing underneath hot spotlights with sweat running down his temples while the bass collided in waves against all sides of him.

"Looks like the party's started!" Candy called from the bottom of the driveway a while later, as Pickles sat in the porch's shade. A fur coat offset the blond's sneakers and tight jeans, confirming for his bandmate that they truly came from different worlds. While Pickles spent his youth up north in Wisconsin, Candy crawled out of white-trash Alabama to wind up on the west coast. Tony too, with desert in his blood, never had trouble with the weather here. "I hope you've got enough coke for tonight. I invited a friend and his band, and he says his singer's pretty heavy on it."

"Should be more than enough."

Candy lighting up a cigarette prompted Pickles to do the same. When the drummer shed his coat, sweat dotted his shoulders and darkened the underside of his green tank top. He shivered when a breeze came up.

"So what's up?"

Candy shrugged. "Not much, and that's a good thing. I'm sure diggin' this break."

"Tony said we got a meeting at the label on Thursday. He figures they're gonna threaten us about getting back into the studio soon."

"What's new?" Candy waved it off. "Have you and Tony been writing at all?"

"Trying. We've got a couple ideas, but not much yet. I'm enjoying the break too. Dunno 'bout him, so much." Increasingly, Tony spent more time in the living room with his bass and paper strewn across the coffee table. Whenever Pickles glanced at his work, he found most of it scratched out. "It'll get done, eventually. The label will get what they want. So will we."

"I'll toast to that." Candy reached for Pickles' beer, raised it in the air, then took a quick sip. "Give me another week and I'll be ready to get serious. I'll just have to come down from tonight."

Pickles grinned crookedly. "You been talkin' to Tony?"

"No, why?"

"You guys both got this idea that something big's gonna happen."

"Can't you feel it, though? It's like there's something in the air." Wind jostled Candy's hair. "Electricity, or static. Like a bomb's gonna fall over the city at sunrise and we only got tonight to live it up."

"Eh. Them Russians are done. I don't worry 'bout that no more."

"Whatever. You know what I mean. Tonight might be the best night of our lives. How could you know any different?"

"Maybe it's just another party, though."

"Aw, you're such a downer." Candy butt his cigarette out. "Is Bullets here yet?"

People began to arrive shortly after, as the sun hovered over the Pacific Ocean. They all greeted Pickles on their way in, some lingered for conversation, and the drug stockpile Tony, Bullets, and Pickles prepared transformed into the party's fuel. More bodies jam-packed into the dwelling, music blared from the stereo, and Pickles eventually managed to catch the bug. Sharing a bottle of hard liquor with Tony resulted in fond reminiscing, snorting some coke with Candy restored him to the top of the world, and smoking the smallest amount of heroin Bullets would let him get away with flat-lined his over-swollen personality. Time slowed for him as he stumbled to the bottom of the stairs, but that only existed within a small bubble. Beyond that, everything happened faster than he could keep track of. Tony darted about with lines on a mirror, presented with rolled up twenty dollar bills that the user was free to keep. Candy's friend indeed showed up in full clown attire, along with three others. Pickles' head swam enough for him to stumble. Maybe he needed to get out of here for a while.

With another beer and pack of cigarettes nicely tucked into his jeans, he ditched his shoes and climbed from his room up to the roof. The day long ago ended, leaving the streets to the lamps that perpetuated a bastardization of the sun. Pickles sat above the world that existed, at this hour. Beneath him, the bass still pounded away and people scurried about like ants. Candy and Tony were right, in a sense: something magnificent unfurled within these walls. But Pickles couldn't be a part of it. No matter how big the party, no matter how long, no matter how loud, he sat on the outskirts. It frustrated him to the point of throwing his unfinished beer onto the lawn below. This should be all he cared about. What else _was_ there, beyond all he'd obtained?

"Piiiickles!" A blond head poked out his window. "You up here?"

"Yeeuh."

Candy crawled up beside Pickles, sniffed, and exhaled heavily toward the sky. "Wow. You're sure missing out."

Pickles shrugged.

"Talk to me, man. You've had this cloud hanging over you all night. What's up?"

"Just go back to the party and have fun. I'll figure it out on my own."

"Hard to have fun when your friend looks so down."

"Sorry, then."

"Dude, I'm fixin' to throw you off this roof if you don't start talkin'." Candy waited, then sighed and tugged on Pickles' elbow. "Come on, let's get outta here. Go for a walk, or some shit. Maybe that'll clear your head."

"I don't wanna drag you away from the party."

"My suggestion. C'mon, let's get some grub."

"You actually hungry?" Pickles' eyebrow jumped as Candy rubbed away some excess powder in the crease of his nostril.

"Not really, but I'll eat."

The dull thud of the music faded away behind them, bringing forth sirens deeper in East L.A. and their shoes smacking against the concrete. A dog barked, and then came a car alarm. Pickles grew used to the concrete jungle, but his senses heightened anyway as precaution. "So where did you want to go?"

"Anywhere, I don't care." Candy shoved his hands into his pockets. ". . .You haven't seemed happy for a while, Pickles."

"Not that there's anything to do about it."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I _should_ be happy. This is all I've ever dreamed about. So why isn't it enough?"

"You're not going to quit the band, are you?"

Pickles shook his head immediately. "You guys are. . .you're everything to me. I dunno what I'd do any different, if not this."

"Tony and Bullets are scared you will. They've noticed, too."

"I won't. There's nowhere else for me to go."

"That's not exactly consolation."

"It's not that I don't like it with you guys, makin' music and all. I love it. But there's. . .something missing."

"Like what?"

"I'll let you know when I figure it out." They wound up at Dimmu Burger, the only place open for the next mile. Feeling better that Candy didn't freak out like Tony would, Pickles managed to summon an appetite. Maybe this wasn't so bad, or at least didn't affect his bandmates so strongly. "I think. . ."

Candy took a huge bite from his burger. "Hm?"

"It all seems so fake, y'know? I mean, that's Hollywood, but even _this_. Why d'we get on stage and play songs about partying? Why do Bullets and Tony make out whenever they see each other? What the hell are we trying to say, Candy? Is this what we're all about? What if there's more, and we're missing it? What if we're us, sittin' here, and life is that party, back at the house?"

"It's all about having fun, letting go, forgetting who you are."

"But there's a point where that's gotta end, and somethin' else begins. That's life. . .right?"

"In reality, yes. But in the music, you can live like that forever. The fans and audience, too."

"I get that. It makes sense and all, but it's got me stuck. Am I thinking too much?"

"Probably." Candy reached for a napkin. "And I get what you're saying too. But I'm concerned what it might lead to. Would you quit the band if this all didn't go away?"

"You got that on the brain, huh?"

"Would you answer honestly if I told you none of us have the right to hold you here? Or that I want you to feel fulfilled by whatever you do with yourself?"

"Is that actually what you think?"

"Sure. I respect you, and I hate seeing you miserable."

Pickles pressed his lips together in thought. "I dunno. This comes and goes, so sometimes I fuckin' love this band, and then I feel like I need more. Maybe I just gotta. . .aim higher with the writing. Shit, after the last record, we got a lot to top anyway. I don't mean this to be gay or whatever, but I really do love you guys. Snakes 'n' Barrels is my entire world."

"This band would be nothing without you. Well, nothing like what we are, anyway. I don't wanna seem like I'm guilting you, or anything. You got spunk, Pickles. That counts for something. Only you know what. Maybe one day you'll figure it out and everything'll make sense, and that'll be where you need to be. We might fit you now, but you shouldn't stay static just to make us happy."

Simply feeling understood elevated Pickles' mood. Laughter came easier on the way home, and just like that, Pickles fell back into himself. He couldn't wait to get back, to get a couple lines off Tony and experience the party meant to drive them into the future. By the time it ended, Pickles should reasonably expect to step outside and see a rare winter snow.

"Guys! Guys!" Tony and Bullets ran down the street toward them, grins wide and bright. "Guess what, guess what!"

"Rockso took off his jumpsuit—and he ran down the street—and the cops came. . ." Tony managed between breaths. "Took him off—and Bink Bonk. . ."

Pickles laughed and jumped onto Tony's back. "Lemme get a piggy ride!"

Candy did the same to Bullets, then declared a race to the house. Tony did his best to keep up to the rhythm guitarist's long strides, but Pickles lagged behind no matter how hard he kicked his mule. An eruption of light and explosion of sound from ahead landed Pickles on his back without breath, confused as to what the hell could level him so fast. Had he just been shot?

"What the _fuck?_" Tony struggled to his feet, then gasped. "Fuck, fuck, the _house!_"

Pickles remained on the ground, diaphragm tight, but he could see the smoke curling upward into the sky. More sirens, coming closer. People screaming, panicking, Bullets' fuzzy head blocking everything out as he frantically tried to make sure he was okay. . .

"Oh my god, our fucking instruments, our _work_. . ." Tony danced on the spot, rubbing his face before dropping down to the pavement. Candy stared with a slack jaw, recoiling whenever another person came out of the fire in the arms of the uniformed city workers. Bullets helped Pickles over to where the two of them stood. "Look at this shit, man. All our stuff. . ."

"You okay?" Bullets asked. "Gettin' your breath back?"

"Slowly." Pickles gazed at the fire. "What happened?"

"We just lost _everything_." Tony sat on the sidewalk, fingers in his hair. To add insult to injury, ash rained down around them. A fragment of Tony's notes, a scratched out portion, landed on the road beside them.

"Hey, we'll be okay. We'll find somewhere else to go, and all that stuff is just stuff." Bullets rested a hand on Tony's shoulder. He didn't exactly sound like he believed it, though.

And there was the cap on the evening. A firefighter declared the fire out just as the sun came up, and none of the band had yet to move from their position across the street from their former home. Ash not only fluttered down, but stained them. Tony managed to stand again, though had to lean on Bullets. To contrast their horror, Pickles remained calm. For all the bodies that came out in bags, nearly as many as went in earlier, he felt himself move closer to understanding the gap in his life. As morbid a time for it to come, maybe starting over from the ground up wasn't so bad a thing after all.


	4. 4) Into the Water

FOUR: INTO THE WATER

* * *

Through all the mental preparation Charles Offdensen engaged in before entering a war zone, he failed to consider the desert heat. Although late February cooled the Persian Gulf, it was still a fifteen degree jump from Langley, Virginia. Despite that, he wished for one of his regular work suits, just for comfort's sake. Riding a helicopter from Kuwait City over to the southernmost point of Iraq with a battle-worn Sergeant made him painfully aware he didn't belong here. Wearing chocolate chip fatigues in order to blend in didn't help.

He maintained a straight face and square shoulders when his boots hit the sand. Now that Kuwait was cleared of Iraqi troops and the U.S. advanced thus far into enemy territory, soldiers walked around with their guns at ease. Charles himself carried a pistol, but it didn't compare to the automatic rifles more practical for this corner of the world.

Sergeant Fenriz led him to a tented area. "I'll fetch Private Explosion."

Charles took a seat at one end of the table, mentally going over everything he knew thus far. Any attempt to move ships out of the Gulf resulted in freak accidents, triangulated to one spot about fifteen miles south of where he now sat. A team dove below to figure out what happened, and only one soldier came back. Nathan Explosion, barely nineteen, landed in Saudi Arabia in September. Born and raised in Port New Ritchey, Florida, he was the single son of a Vietnam vet and homemaker. Hesitantly marked as a high-functioning autistic, he somehow managed to scrape through public school without that label. Excelled at biology, sports, and keeping his cool in this God-forsaken place. Dominantly a kinaesthetic learner. Quietly spoken, due to combined introverted personality and a motorcycle accident about a year ago that permanently damaged his vocal cords.

. . .Yet enormous. He crouched and squeezed in sideways past the curtain. His craggy, solemn face told a different story from his eyes, which only hinted at apathy. . .make that boredom. He took the only other available seat and nodded in greeting.

"Private, this is Special Agent Offdensen. He's here to talk to you about what happened."

"I already told you everything." 'Damaged' didn't even begin to describe how Nathan's voice sounded.

"And now the CIA wants to hear it."

Nathan stared at Charles, who allowed his uncertainty to manifest solely as an adjustment to his glasses. "Not much to tell. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary."

"Let's start with the ships."

"USS Anvil sprung a fast-acting leak and sunk within three hours. USS Krokus exploded, or something. The Vitus had some kind of malfunction. I dunno. Ships aren't my thing. Why would you ask _me_ about that?"

"What about the diving expedition, then? You went on that, right? May I ask why?"

"Good swimmer, I guess." With the amount of upper body strength Nathan boasted, he'd _have_ to be. "We just volunteered. I dive with my dad occasionally, so I had the experience."

"And what happened down there, to the rest of them?"

Nathan shrugged. "A couple freaked out. Wouldn't calm down, so they used up the rest of their oxygen. Another guy just disappeared. Got separated. The last guy wouldn't go back through the cave. Opted to go down the tunnel, instead."

"What cave?"

"There was one underwater, close to where the Anvil settled. We thought to secure it, just in case there were some enemies hiding in there, but we found it empty. A tunnel did lead back into Iraq, though."

"And even though it could be in use, you let your fellow Private go?"

"We could tell no one's been down there for a very long time."

"Ah. And he still wanted to try his chances?"

"It wasn't an easy cave to get into."

"So you returned all by yourself."

"Yes."

"Humour me, Private. I'm a diver, myself. If I asked to see the cave, would you take me?"

Nathan shrugged. "Sure. But it's pitch black, and pretty tight in places. Would almost be better to get it exploded open, or something."

"I'd rather not wait."

"Whatever you want, I guess."

After a conversation with his CO, Nathan led Charles to shore. They rode to a larger ship about 300 feet off the bay, then transferred over to a different boat. While they travelled south through the gulf, a couple other men helped them into their suits.

A solid six months passed since Charles' last vacation, so he needed a reminder lesson on how to handle the depths. Nathan would stay ahead of him and trail string back to the boat. Unlike the last time he went down, he would be fixed with a light. Charles did his best not to imagine being without. How could Nathan remark so nonchalantly that the other Private kept the only one between them, so that he could more easily maneuver the tunnel?

He couldn't lose his nerve before even getting into the water. Although, he definitely regretted his decision to volunteer. No chance to turn back now, lest he lose all credibility in the eyes of these soldiers. He sought any mirrored anxiety in Nathan, but the kid still appeared bored while he waited for Charles' safety debriefing to end. The issued dagger—just in case they ran into some sort of trouble—spent more time out than in its case attached to Nathan's belt.

"Ready?"

Charles nodded, suddenly feeling sick. Regardless, he followed Nathan down the ladder off the side and took the last breath of fresh air he'd get for a while. The boat's propellor whirred and squealed beneath the surface, fading away along with natural light. Despite Nathan's leisurely pace, Charles busted his ass to keep up. As silence pressed in from all around, Charles kept his focus. His suit withstood a major brunt of the water's weight, but he still felt it in his mind.

Pure darkness, or so he thought. Nathan's light brushed a pole of some sort, then panned to reveal a ghost of the USS Anvil, situated in the Gulf's sandy depths. They carried on past, headed for the port side. Charles never questioned until now how Nathan and the rest of the diving team would know to look beyond the ship, but along with a strange interruption in the current there opened a chasm ahead. For just a few seconds, as they swam underneath the cliff lip hiding this place from being seen at any other angle, Charles closed his eyes. The only thing worse than being separated from the surface by a couple hundred feet of water was an impenetrable layer of rock on top of it.

Charles' light flickered, then died. He steadied himself with a hand against the ceiling while he tried to bring it back to life. Nathan came back to offer a hand, but it was a futile effort.

Nathan pointed back where they'd come from. _Back to surface?_

Charles shook his head. He'd never come back down if he got to the boat.

Nathan shrugged, turned back inward, and waved at Charles to keep following him. The cave's maw shrunk, the further in they swam. Shadows retreated before Nathan's light as though tails and legs alike belonging to thus far unknown species fled to the rocks. Charles minded the abyss behind him, as well as that Nathan only checked to see he still followed if he left a sufficient gap between tugs on the rope. Besides that sweep of light and ache in the back of his eyes, Charles might as well be a floating ball of consciousness with no body to speak of.

One positive thing about Nathan being such a large person was that where he found a tight fit Charles passed through without qualm. He couldn't believe that Nathan so easily sucked himself in and squeezed between rocks. Charles himself, when all his mental energy didn't go toward making sure he didn't compromise his equipment, wondered how far they'd come since the surface and how far they had yet to go. Not since university did he experience a panic attack, and he wasn't going to start again now. He'd trained himself to stay cool, forget his mortality, and take things as they come. A cave wasn't going to compromise that.

Finally, their path tilted upward and widened again. A rippling fabric appeared before Nathan's light, which Charles rightly assumed as the surface. Gravity's last pull upward and his head breaking came with a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived. Still air and Nathan's light unable to touch any wall, ceiling, or rock structure hinted at the size of this place.

"All right?" According to Nathan's tone, they might have just taken the short trek from the helicopter to the tent. Oh, how Charles wished he could've stayed back there.

They kept their direction, heading further north. Eventually, Charles' flippers grazed rock and shore lit up before Nathan. He crawled out, adrenaline having weakened his limbs. Nathan already started disassembling his gear. "Need some help?"

"No, thank you. I'll manage."

Stripped down to his wet suit and footwear, Charles squinted to investigate their surroundings. His visual prescription was pretty mild at 20/50, so he didn't worry about leaving his glasses in the boat. No side of his body cooled, so they couldn't be close to the tunnel. "How far did you explore?"

"Pretty far. I think I remember where the tunnel is."

Nathan tied their rope leading back through the water to a stalagmite, gleaming silver line reminding Charles that he would have to face that all over again. He understood now why Nathan's fellow soldier refused to go back that way. In fact, if there hadn't been a prior expedition with such casualties, Charles too would rather attempt the tunnel. Even with the possibility he'd wind up in front of Saddam Hussein himself.

"There. We should be good." Nathan tied a second rope to hold onto. "Won't get lost in here."

"Any idea how big it is?"

"Not really. Lots of tunnels once we get out of here, but we only really followed the one with the draft."

As they headed in that direction, Charles reminded himself of the purpose for his visit. He needed to find a reason behind the sunken and damaged ships and if that turned out to be a physical threat, he needed to take measures to neutralize it. True, he practiced various forms of martial arts from a very young age—primarily Budo—but his body would be useless against guns. He entertained the possibility that a passion for the supernatural and particular interest in the Bermuda Triangle influenced his superior more than common sense in choosing him for this case. Charles could defend himself with a weapon as well, but that training and subsequent practice became useless down here.

"Do you think we'll find your fellow Private?"

"Hm. Maybe. Not much we could do about it, besides tell Fenriz where he wound up."

"You'd leave him down here?"

"I wasn't given orders to take him back or to bury him. Just to accompany you."

Very literal sense of direction. It made complete sense to Charles that they should recover the body if they had the means. . .but there lay the problem. Dragging a corpse out the way they came in wasn't practical.

Just as Charles feared, a strong repugnant smell teased his nostrils. Nathan merely chuckled, something that threw Charles off. "What's so funny?"

"Kinda reminds me of a pal I got back home."

". . .I see."

It only grew stronger, the further they went. Charles breathed only through his mouth, then covered the lower part of his face when he started to taste it. Completely unfazed, Nathan showed mercy when Charles' eyes watered by stopping. "I think this is about as far as we got before."

"That Private can't have made it too much further. It smells like he's right here."

"Dunno. But I'm not getting any closer. Don't need to, to figure out what happened and where he is."

How did somebody sound so bored about something so disturbing? Had Nathan seen _that_ much in the course of duty? But such a difference separated him from the others, who couldn't maintain eye contact because they needed to constantly scan their surroundings. "Is there anything else of interest down here? If not, I'm prepared to rule out anything to do with this cave as a possible cause."

"Sort of, I guess. Not that it could have anything to do with this."

"What is it?"

"Paintings."

"Paintings," Charles repeated, deadpan. "Ancient cave paintings, you mean? From when? _Who?_"

Nathan shrugged and led on. They branched off into another tunnel and shortly came upon a rounded dead end. Charles saw nothing special about the place until Nathan got close to the wall and brushed his fingers against barely visible etches. "See? It's a whale."

Back in his undergraduate days at NYU, Charles took an art history class as elective. His professor very briefly covered cave paintings, and only now did Charles wish he'd paid closer attention. "Judging by the age, I'd say it must belong to Mesopotamia. More accurately Sumer, since it was the southernmost region."

"How do you know that shit?"

"I have to know a lot, for my job. This, I'm just hazarding a guess at, based on my limited knowledge of ancient civilizations." Charles trailed his fingers along the etched in water ripples. "Can you shine your light this way? There's more."

The ripples transformed to mountains, before which men riding horses raised their swords to war. Charles followed along to their front lines and squinted at a mass of either dust or clouds. A floating figure in armour and cape towered over them. Nathan didn't need request to direct his light further up, revealing a beard, elongated mouth, and sword.

"Brutal," he commented. "What do you think it is?"

"Not sure. Possibly some sort of myth, or perhaps a demigod. I'm not familiar enough with Mesopotamian culture to say."

Nathan's light panned away. More paintings existed, but they were too high to see.

"Although interesting, I can't surmise a reason why this would bring down a ship when never before has it happened in the Persian Gulf. I believe this cave can be out-ruled with complete confidence. Perhaps the Anvil, Krokus, and Vitus are the results of a strange coincidence."

"Aren't all FBI agents supposed to say that?"

"The CIA, Private. We are quite independent and objective within the government, so what business would I have keeping any knowledge I obtained here from you?"

Nathan shrugged. "Ready to get out of here, then?"

"Lead the way."

Charles dreaded going back through the water, but with a basic idea of how long he'd be underwater and eagerness to be back underway, the USS Anvil appeared again relatively quickly. Sunlight cut through the depths like a sunrise, eventually blinding him when they broached close to the boat they rode out in. He stalled in swimming back so that he could clench his aching eyes shut and allow his rods and cones to gradually readjust. Getting his glasses back and being able to shed the heavy oxygen tanks was the best thing that happened to him all day.

"Got what you need?" Fenriz asked when they reached shore.

"I've seen no reason why any of the accidents or deaths could be connected or otherwise perpetrated by an enemy. Everything seems in order for natural cause."

"So you believe we should be able to deploy our ships?"

"I do, although I recommend waiting to hear from a military official. I will begin my report as soon as I board back for the U.S., so as to hopefully expedite getting you and your men home.

"Goodbye, Private." Charles extended a hand toward Nathan. "And thank you once again for your assistance. It wasn't an experience I'll soon forget."

Charles underestimated Sergeant Fenriz's urgency in getting out of the Gulf, and mistook him for a rational man. While nothing happened as Charles' helicopter flew back to Kuwait City and he got into a car bound for the airport, Fenriz took Charles' speculation to his commanding officer, and as Charles flew over the Mediterranean, the USS Buffalo jerked into motion on its departure from the Kuwaiti shoreline. However, in their haste, no one noticed the leak in the fuel tank, marking her wake. Charles missed news of the resulting explosion, destroying the entire fleet and killing multiple soldiers, by mere minutes as he changed flights in Paris. A muddled report beat him across the Atlantic and circulated through government offices and CIA headquarters. As Charles stepped off the plane in D.C., jetlagged, he couldn't in the least understand why his superior personally met him there with dismissal papers.


	5. 5) Haven

FIVE: HAVEN

* * *

When a warm, beautiful Norwegian spring opened the doors of Lillehammer's residents and ushered them into the streets, a young boy named Toki Wartooth took advantage of that.

He plucked away at his guitar strings, regurgitating the melodies he rearranged in order to obscure the true nature of his favourite music. His parents and their church enjoyed his playing, but they didn't know they listened to stripped down, rebuilt metal. The songs he heard while hiding outside bars and record stores transformed to campy instrumentals worshipping their Lord.

Iron Maiden's Powerslave had people patting their hips and tossing coins into the tin can Toki set out. Every jingle of change widened Toki's smile. Making money this way was murky by the Wartooth-led Church, but Toki didn't worry about getting busted. His parents nor any other member of their congregation ever came this far into town, and even if they did, Toki could plead ignorance. Really, compared to what he planned to do with the money, this wasn't a big deal at all.

The crowd he drew maintained safe distance, all but someone in the periphery of his vision. As his concentration lessened, the awareness of being closely watched could no longer be ignored. Toki looked over as he finished the song and his cheeks flushed instantly with heat.

Since Toki didn't lead into the next song, most of the crowd politely clapped and moved on. The tall blond, guitar swung over his shoulder and hands in his pocket, approached. Skwisgaar Skwigelf, here! Not that it should surprise Toki, since Fuckface Academy was based out of Lillehammer.

"You play well." His eyes narrowed in apprehension. "I'm Skwisgaar. What's your name?"

"T-Toki," he stammered.

As if that cured Skwisgaar's uncertainty, the older boy's blue eyes returned to full size. "You speak."

Toki blinked.

". . .Sort of." Skwisgaar scratched the back of his head. "Anyway, I was just wondering if you make good money doing that."

"A decent bit, I guess."

"Any chance I can borrow your guitar for a little bit?"

"Ja, sure!" Toki jumped up, shoved the guitar into Skwisgaar's hands, and then emptied the tin into his jacket pockets. He sat down next to Skwisgaar, unable to believe his luck. His eyes widened as the blond effortlessly began to play.

"I can always hear the music, so it's easy to forget that others don't. That's why I'm not playing my own. No amps in the street." Skwisgaar jerked his head toward the Gibson Explorer Toki's ears were well-acquainted with. "I've never played a grandpa guitar in my whole life."

"How can it be a grandpa guitar? I'm not a grandpa."

"Just the downside of living where there's no electricity, I guess."

How did Skwisgaar know that Toki didn't have power out where he lived? Maybe the guitar really did give him away. Toki wallowed in shame, for what if passers-by looked at him like some weirdo? "Your guitar is pretty cool. It must have cost a lot."

"Nah."

"Probably not enough to matter. You're in a band, so you must make _krillions_ of money."

Skwisgaar chuckled. "It's enough. But I didn't pay for this. I found it."

"No way! Like out in the woods?"

". . .Actually, ja."

Toki beamed. "I'd have to be a dumb little kid not to know who you are, right? That's why I'm here, today. I'm making money for a bus ticket and a festival ticket, and then I'm going to come see you play next week."

The Scandinavian Open Air Metal Show Extravapalooza was all Toki could think about ever since he first saw a poster advertising it outside the record shop. His yearning to go only heightened when he learned that one of his favourite bands—Skwisgaar's—was headlining. He moped around for a couple months in constant state of identity crisis before deciding that _no_, his church would not stop him from going to Göteburg. No matter how last-minute, he would make the money he needed and head out. Skwisgaar evidently approved of this plan, judging by his smug smile and expanded chest.

"I should have known I didn't have to introduce myself to a local metalhead."

"So since you're in a band and you're so famous, how come you're here making money? Shouldn't you have enough to buy a million of anything you could ever want?"

"I do. . ." Skwisgaar's stomach growled as he trailed off. "but I left my wallet back home."

"Shucks."

"Ja. You know what it's like when you have a billion things on the go. I'd forget my head, and so on."

Toki's back developed an itch, reminding him of the appropriate punishment for such a thing. "That's not good."

Skwisgaar's fingers flew over the frets, drawing the crowd back in. After only a couple songs, he eyed the tin and abruptly stopped playing. "That should be enough. Thanks, Toki. See you next week, if you make it out."

Toki gaped in awe after the guitarist, then scrambled to gather his things. He failed to notice that the Swede shoved a couple bills into the wallet he supposedly didn't have. Coins jingling in Toki's pocket, he fell in step beside Skwisgaar. "Hi."

". . .Hi," Skwisgaar reluctantly replied. "You, uh, going to follow me, are you?"

Toki laughed. "Do you live here? But you're from Sweden, right? Are you from Stockholm? It's a pretty big place, I hear."

"Nej, I am from a small place outside of Göteburg."

"I'm the same, except mine's close to here! What's the name of _your_ village?"

"Jonesered."

"We call ours the Haven."

Skwisgaar turned into a diner, where Toki dropped down on the other side of a booth. He couldn't so easily let his opportunity to hang out with such a cool guy end. Skwisgaar wasn't very talkative unless prompted, but that was okay. Toki could be shy too. Before even looking at the menu, Skwisgaar swung his guitar around to his lap and resumed what he'd done on the street.

Toki admired his fingers' clean speed, watching with his elbows on the table. "How do you play so fast?"

"Practice. I've been playing for a long time."

"I hope someday I'll be as good as you. Then maybe I'll be in a band too. Then we could tour together! Wouldn't that be the coolest?"

"I think by then I'd be in such a famous band that we wouldn't even have an opening act."

"Wowee. Maybe." It didn't hurt to dream, though. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"I'm thirteen and a half."

"Oh yeah."

"I've been playing since I was seven. My dad gave me my guitar and now I play for the people in my church. They don't know they're listening to metal, though. Isn't that funny?"

Skwisgaar did indeed laugh. "You can't play metal on a grandpa's guitar."

"Ja, I can. I don't have any other choice."

"Metal is a demanding lady, little Toki. She won't be played on just _anything_."

"Funny, I always thought metal would be a big hairy guy riding a motorbike."

The blond laughed again. "You're funny. I like you."

The menu trembled in Toki's grip. This afternoon turned into so much more than he could ever imagine. He only ever dreamed of being in the crowd when Skwisgaar played, and now he not only met him but they sat in a restaurant together. For someone with no friends beyond a couple tamed animals, Skwisgaar's overwhelming presence affected the young boy's nerves. He couldn't believe that someone so famous took an interest in him.

"So how're you getting to the festival?" Skwisgaar asked after ordering food.

"I'm just gonna take the bus. Is it far?"

"Couple hours. Not a bad trip. Where're you staying?"

"Staying? Um. . ."

"You haven't thought that far ahead, yet?"

No, he hadn't. Toki couldn't feel more stupid. "Guess I'll just make more money and find a hotel, or something."

"Is anyone going with you? Have you been to the city before?"

"Not even to Oslo," Toki quietly admitted.

"Toki, how are you going to get to Göteburg and back if you have no idea what you're doing?"

"I—I don't know. . ." Who was Toki kidding? He could never go to the festival. Why did he ever bother to dream for anything? He'd be stuck in Lillehammer and the Haven forever.

Across the table, Skwisgaar's fingers slowed and he pursed his lips. "Look, I'll level with you. If it's that important to you. . .so long as you promise to stay quiet. . .I'll see if Tallak will let you ride there with us."

"Really?"

"I've never seen someone look so sad. Just don't make a big deal out of it."

Toki spent his entire walk home later convincing himself that his afternoon was merely a daydream out of control. Not only was he going to the festival, but he would pal around with Skwisgaar! Maybe they'd hang out there, too! Maybe Toki would find his own band and he could. . .

Wait, he couldn't do a damn thing. His parents would forbid it and subject him to the vow of silence toward anyone outside of the church. And then he would never be let in. How bad would that be, though? Did Toki want to live like this for the rest of his life? He didn't even know what a toilet was, until a shopkeeper explained it after he asked for access to his earth closet. There was such a huge world beyond here. Could he really die peacefully knowing he didn't see as much of it as humanly possible?

Smoke curling lazily toward the sky marked the Haven before Toki came over the hill and was able to see the fifteen or so houses in its entirety. He stopped briefly at the stream for a drink of water and to bury his money with the rest of his earnings under the largest tree's roots. While gathering a couple buckets of water, he slung his guitar in the same manner as Skwisgaar and commenced his old mantra of mind over matter.

"Am I too late to help with dinner, Mama?"

"I can manage. Why don't you wash up and fetch your father?"

Toki put some water on to boil and ran out the door for the hill beneath Reverend Aslaug's childhood home. His father found many nooks and crannies in which to pray, and recently this was where he could best hear the voice of their god. In order to avoid interrupting, Toki quietly dropped to his knees beside the man and said a few words of his own inside his mind. He listened carefully for any residual whisper from Aslaug's internal conversation, but his father was the Reverend for a reason. No one else was as sensitive to such a divine voice.

"Amen," Aslaug whispered under his breath. Toki grinned and braced himself from falling over when his father ruffled his hair. "I should figure it was you. No one else is so respectful."

"I know better," Toki boasted. He'd been berated too many times for bothering his father's prayer. "Mama wanted me to tell you dinner is just about ready."

Aslaug folded his hands together while Toki ambled along beside him. "So what did you do today, my little son?"

"Did my chores, went to town, practiced my guitar. . ."

"Have you written any new songs lately?"

"I've been working on one. Maybe I can show you after dinner?"

"I would enjoy that."

Anya had removed the pot of boiling water from the wood stove, but it still needed to be diluted with more from the stream to cool it. Toki sighed with a warm cloth against his face and brought one to his father.

In a few weeks, it would warm up enough for Toki to help his parents plant the garden. Their pantry showed signs of necessity, since potatoes, carrots, radishes, onions, and canned beets neared dissipation. Toki didn't much care for onions, so he got his out of the way first after Aslaug spoke a few more words of gratitude. His deer steak went down much easier. He cleared the table once his mother put her fork down and cleaned the kitchen up while his parents spoke in hushed voices in the family room. They stopped suddenly when Toki came into the room with his guitar.

"Am I okay to play?" he asked. Light from the lanterns caused deep etches in Anya and Aslaug's faces, reminding Toki how old his parents were. They nodded and sat beside one another, Anya closing her eyes in preparation to listen and Aslaug giving his son an encouraging smile. The latest song Toki picked up was Mercyful Fate's _Into the Coven_. Sometimes Toki believed he found a song his parents might enjoy, but he long ago decided never to tell them about his musical tastes. He didn't want them to look further into it and discover the extent of his obsession. So instead he delivered metal the way they liked it: slowed down, shifted to major key, and with a brief explanation of which sermon or part of scripture inspired it.

"Wonderful, Toki," Aslaug complimented him after the last note died. "Won't you play more? It's that sort of night, I believe."

Toki agreed willingly and delved into a few other favourites, like Bathory's _Blood Fire Death_, Megadeth's _Hangar 18_, and Iron Maiden's _Gangland_. Fragments of the non-sensical English passed through his mind, the translations which he barely knew. The music part of a song was all that really mattered to Toki. Something in it hit him square in the chest and made him feel things much more acutely. Despite the doomy-gloomy sound of some songs, it gave him an itchy type of hope. It didn't matter so much then that he was the only child in the village, and the youngest by over thirty years. He wasn't really alone, like this. Lots of other people listened to the same things, maybe at the same time, and even though they didn't know him by name, they knew him by heart. Like Skwisgaar.

". . .And thank you for giving me such a gifted, obedient son. Amen," Anya finished off come bedtime. She got off her knees along with Toki and pet his hair once he'd curled up underneath the covers. "Good night and sleep well."

"You too, Mama." Toki closed his eyes and waited for his mother to leave the room. When he heard her settle in bed with Aslaug, Toki rolled onto his back and pressed his hands together again. "I have more that I'm grateful for. Thank you for letting me meet Skwisgaar Skwigelf. I take it as a sign that it's something you want, because I don't think it would have happened otherwise. Same goes for the festival, but I don't think my Mama and Papa would understand, so we'll keep that to ourselves for now. I'll keep you in my heart when I go to Göteburg. Thank you more than all I could give, Lucifer."


	6. 6) Gothenburg

SIX: GOTHENBURG

* * *

William Murderface learned from a very young age that if he ever wanted something, he needed to manipulate those around him. As a baby and child, that meant throwing a tantrum of epic proportions until his grandmother conceded either to whatever treat he wanted or a regret-inducing spanking. His grandfather was even easier, since he took pity upon the orphaned boy. Unfortunately, when the man suffered a massive stroke, Murderface needed to up his game.

When it came to his teenage years, he used his grotesque appearance to his advantage. No one ever wanted to fuck with him, which meant kids mostly left him alone in school and no teacher ever really tried to provide any education outside of his interests. If not for this, he would've done like Nathan and just quit school, rather than float through.

He realized when his grandmother first brought up the idea of leaving Newark that his influence on her had ended. Granted, Murderface strained her nerves since he still lived at home and hosted other such degenerates to drink beer and play music in her basement. She made it very clear that Murderface could stay in New Jersey if he chose, but she would no longer put off her well-deserved retirement so that he could mess around. Murderface lacked any sort of life skill, which prompted him to choose at the last minute that he too would move, even if he couldn't live with his grandparents anymore.

He manipulated his way into a job by amping up his resume and manipulated the quarterback of the school's football team to be his friend. And now that Nathan returned from the Middle East, Murderface worked on manipulating him to be in his band.

"I just don't see myself wearing a confederate soldier uniform. Ever." Nathan flipped through the safety pamphlet on the plane they boarded. He'd grown his hair longer and fit the physical description of someone fronting a listen-worthy band, but he just wouldn't budge. "I'm done with all that shit."

"Juscht think about it, though. You've been to war, you know what it'sch all about. I can't write schongsch about schomething I've never done!"

"You can't write songs anyway."

"And that'sch why _you_ would write the schongsch."

"Wow, Murderface. Sounds like a good deal. Join your band and do everything for you. Awesome."

"Hey, I play the bassch!"

"Barely."

"I can play it with my hog. How _dare_ you." Murderface crossed his arms and sunk as far in his seat as the gut-digging seatbelt would allow. He'd learned the trick out of boredom during Nathan's absence, and the asshole couldn't even _pretend_ to be amazed when showed. "You'll probably change your mind once we get to the feschtival."

"I've already made it very clear that this will do nothing to change my mind. The only reason I'm going is to check it out." Nathan peered at the inside of the barf bag. "Where _is_ Gothenburg, anyway?"

"Schweden. I think that'sch part of Canada, right? They schpeak French. Or Schpanish, I don't know."

"That's Quebec. . .I think."

"Maybe that'sch what I'm thinking of. Fucking expenschive to get there, anyway. Muscht be nearly to the North Pole."

"Goddamn it, Murderface. Wish you would've said something. I'd've packed a coat."

"Not my fault you didn't aschk 'til now! What?" Murderface leaned past Nathan to look at a woman with a crying baby. "Mind your own buschinessch, lady!"

The first leg of the trip bumped them up to Atlanta, where they sat around while waiting to fly out to Amsterdam. Murderface alternated between watching stupid people going about their stupid days and craning his head to peer in Nathan's notebook. Unfortunately, between his chicken scratch, obscuring hair, and being turned away, Murderface couldn't make anything out. Just more drawings of some little cartoon Nathan invented in high school named Facebones.

When Nathan wandered away to find something to eat, Murderface snatched the notebook from his bag and quickly flipped through it. Nathan's behaviour as of late birthed a suspicion in him and he needed to know the truth. Ever since Nathan finished his duty, he buried his nose constantly in writing. He shared some of the songs with Murderface, who couldn't believe his buddy's imagination sometimes. He also refused to believe that Nathan only filed his ideas away.

"Hey, Murderface!" Nathan hunched his shoulders and clenched his hands into fists when he came back, scowling. "I just looked at a map. Sweden isn't in Canada. It's in fucking _Europe_. And it's even further north!"

Murderface couldn't care less. "Who'sch Regurgitated and Re-Eaten?"

"My band. Why?"

"I knew it! I _knew_ you were in a band—!"

"Who fucking cares about that, right now? If I knew we were going across the fucking ocean, I wouldn't have bothered to come."

"You can go home, if you like! I refusche to pay for a liar to go to a feschtival with me! I thought we were palsch!"

"Do you see now why I never told you? I knew you'd just turn into a whiny fucking dildo about it." Nathan snatched his notebook from Murderface. "And if you ever look at my shit again without my express permission I will murder you."

"Thisch isch juscht great!" Murderface kept on. "I could've brought Lawrencshe, but inschtead I'm schtuck with a big fat liar like you!"

"Watch who you're calling fat, fatty."

With that, silence descended like a curtain between them. Murderface steamed and stewed throughout the entire boarding process, and couldn't even fall asleep once they flew through a dark sky over the Atlantic. How could Nathan lie so blatantly, and then pile so many insults on top of it? Murderface shouldn't have even _thought_ about the money gone to waste by leaving Nathan in Atlanta. Who cared about the festival ticket, or his plane tickets? He should've taught that asshole a fucking lesson. His friendship wasn't something to be played with, and he deserved honesty. If Nathan wanted to be a prick about not playing together in a band, then Murderface wanted the opportunity to fight him in a place security wouldn't pull them apart in. No matter how big or strong Nathan was, he'd never beat a knife in a fight. Asshole.

Murderface began to calm down and accept Nathan's decision as they flew over the southwestern corner of Great Britain. They resumed seats in Amsterdam's airport after clearing customs, waiting for their final jump north.

"Scho. . ." Murderface crossed his arms again. "What'sch your band like?"

"It's okay. Brutal, but there's definitely more to be desired."

"Scho you definitely won't think about combining the bandsch."

"I already told you, I don't want to dress up like a civil war soldier. And your band name sucks."

"General Bobby and the Leesch isch a _great_ band name!"

"Maybe like thirty years ago, if you were a jazz quartet."

"Schincshe when did _you_ become schuch a muschic snob? I wasch playing bassch while you were schtill schitting in diapersch!"

Rather than go on the offensive, Nathan's brow crowded in the centre. "I've never been able to shut off this thing in my brain. It's like anything but the most brutal shit makes me bored. So that's my minimum. If I don't get bored, it's good. If I do, it's not worth my time. And now I think I've seen enough in order to _create_ that kind of shit."

"Guessch it'sch better than being a scherial killer, or schomething. Although that'd be kind of aweschome."

"You can't even kill a cockroach that's already pretty much drowned."

"I've scheen more brutal thingsch than you know! I schaw my parentsch die!"

"When you were a fucking baby."

"Scho?"

"I'm not going to have a pissing contest with you, Murderface. Just let it go."

Nathan underestimated Murderface, if he thought the older man would give up so easily. By continuously reigniting the same argument, he slowly wore Nathan down to doing whatever he wanted. It worked with his grandparents, it worked with the education system, and now it would soon work with his band's future vocalist. If Murderface didn't get Nathan to yield by their arrival in Gothenburg, then the festival had to work. He needed to get Nathan to a place where he'd readily discuss musical style and accept that the brutality of America's Civil War was suitable song material.

Sweden's May weather lagged behind Florida's, judging by the cold. Murderface clutched his arms when they stepped out of the airport, knees knocking as both he and Nathan came to a stop. "Holy fuck, it'sch colder than January!"

"Is this. . .is this snow I'm looking at? Brutal." Indeed, a small, nearly melted pile sat in the shade. "I hate this place already."

"Fuck thisch. We need coatsch."

Equipped with winter jackets and scarves, they became subject to stares on the bus west toward the city. It couldn't be easier to tell the difference between those who travelled here, and those who just returned home. Nearly everyone speaking in the same vein of gibberish wore tee shirts and sneakers. A couple even fanned themselves, despite the open windows. A whole different breed of people lived over here. Even though Murderface regarded heat the same way after moving to Florida, he didn't appreciate going through climate adjustment all over again.

"This is the coldest place I've ever been. I fucking hate it," Nathan remarked. In the city centre, where they wound up, everyone and their dogs seemed to flock to the streets. "Hm. This is probably the first day they've seen sun all year. Poor fuckers. I feel so bad for them."

"Schould've been born in the good ol' U-Esch of A." Murderface stepped into a blonde woman's track as she passed them. "Hey you! Where'sch the muschic feschtival?"

". . .Förlåt?"

"Do you schpeak Englisch?"

The woman gazed at Murderface, then shook her head in regret. "You sound like English, but I can't be for sure. . ."

"All right, all right, let me handle this." Nathan pushed Murderface out of the way. "Metal festival. Where is it?"

Unable to understand any of the landmarks their impromptu guide described, Nathan finally got her to draw a map in a torn out page of his notebook. Slottskogen, the park they were directed to, lived up to their expectations musically, but not so much for the setting.

"How can you have a metal feschtival in a park that'sch alscho got a petting zoo?"

"Maybe the animals like metal."

"Animalsch can't like metal." Murderface stared at some ponies. "I thought Schweden wasch schupposed to be brutal. You know, descholate schnowy mountainsch asch far asch you can see, everyone drilling holesch for food scho that they don't die, killing each other in competition for matesch. . ."

"You're thinking of the vikings. And you're clear that Sweden isn't in Canada, right? We established that?"

"Oh, fuck Canada. Canada'sch not brutal. They've never even been in a war."

Nathan pointed toward the grounds where the rest of the crowd congregated. "Let's go see what they call metal in Sweden, then."

Nathan preferred to stand back and watch, but Murderface quickly pushed his way right up to the front. Music snob that Nathan was, he missed out entirely so far on Sweden's death metal scene. It popped up here more prevalently than in Florida, where more people with similar mind to Nathan preoccupied themselves far too much with lyrics that no one could even understand and a batch of instruments competing to make the most noise. In Sweden, the singing became clearer—more English lyrics than Swedish, as far as Murderface heard—and the music generally easier to listen to. Melody struck Murderface's fancy more than a wall of noise, and yet, sometimes these bands sacrificed a heavier sound_ for_ that melody. Murderface ignored that for the most part, especially here when the bass vibrated every cell of fat on his body and long hair kept swiping him in the face. He punched a tall guy as entrance fee to the mosh pit and rapidly cleared everyone out.

"Pretty schweet, huh?" Murderface panted as he found Nathan between sets. "Whatcha think?"

Nathan certainly descended into deep thought. "It's not brutal enough. But it could be."

"Schee, thisch isch what I wasch talking about. Imagine we brought thisch back home with usch. Think about what you could do with it."

"Write songs about Gettysburg?" Nathan frowned. "You understand that if we were in the same band, it wouldn't have anything to do with American history if I didn't say so, right? There're more brutal things out there than a bunch of rednecks fighting for the right to make black people pick their fields."

"Name _five_ thingsch!"

"Fuckface Academy!" someone nearby hollered, then ran toward the stage. An explosion of bass and immaculately squealing guitars clogged the airspace and completely interrupted Nathan and Murderface's argument. That sounded eerily like the grey area that existed between Floridian and Swedish death metal, even if the vocalist could stand to be more aggressive. The bassist headbanged up at the front, but the guitarist, dressed entirely in white, hung near the back. Murderface dismissed his stage presence as nil, but after a couple solos, neither he nor Nathan (judging by the excited widening of his eyes) could deny such raw talent. Forgetting previous annoyances, they punched their way close enough to see the guy in action. It proved pointless—the blond's fingers moved so quickly over the fretboard that they blurred. And yet, despite his speed, he managed to play a completely coherent song. That was a hard balance for a guitarist to maintain.

"That'sch fucking amazing!" Murderface hollered near Nathan's ear. "Look at him fucking go! And he'sch juscht a kid!"

Whether due to lax safety requirements or unpreparedness in the amount of shaking Fuckface Academy would subject the stage to, the entire thing's centre of gravity shifted slowly enough to notice yet too fast to do anything about it. The music swelled and stopped as all five members of the band jarred suddenly to the right, and then silent screams were replaced by tiny spurts of blood as being squished forced their organs to the outside of their body. Only the lead guitarist, white now speckled with red, stood amongst the carnage. He inspected his surroundings, like the horrified audience, and while they screamed and fled, the blond stayed. Even security bolted, leaving nothing to separate him from Nathan and Murderface.

"Fan! _Fan!_" The blond kicked his lead singer's decapitated head. Briefly Murderface thought he acted out of disbelieving grief, but the guitarist only seemed peeved that the set was so abruptly ruined. Nathan leapt the barrier, prompting Murderface to follow. He didn't jump over so gracefully, instead landing on his side, but he reached Nathan's heels again as he ascended the stairs to the stage. The blond seemed uncertain by their appearance, debating whether or not he too should run, as if they'd deliberately caused this, but he firmly stood his ground as Nathan pointed at him.

"You. You're going to be in my band."

The guitarist furrowed his brow, prompting Murderface to grunt. "I don't think he schpeaks Englisch."

"Ja, I does. Did gots the tops place fors it in my skull—skoo—skill?" He paused to think about the pronunciation. "I just can'ts be in yous band, b'cause I ams alreadies in one."

"You mean these guys?" Nathan pointed at the bassist, whose brain juices oozed through his broken, squished skull.

The blond huffed and exhaled. "Ja, I guess I ams. . .how's you say? Ons de market."

He slung his guitar over his shoulder and followed Nathan and Murderface back off the stage. Sweat made his hair stringy and he shivered lightly in any breeze that came up. Murderface felt good enough to ditch his winter attire before heading into the mosh pit, but he put his jacket back on now. Fucking Nathan. After all the nagging Murderface did to get him to consider General Bobby and the Lees, this Swedish dildo had his complete attention and approval within half an hour. And they didn't even know him yet.

"I'm Nathan, and this is Murderface. He's in a different band than me, but you should be in mine. I need a guitarist like you. You're fast, but you still manage to be good. Usually it's one or the other."

"Ja, ams like two fickles misskress whats you gots to make happy at the same times, but I does it just fine," the guitarist breezily stated. "My name ams Skwisgaar Skwigelf."

"Any good bars around here?"

They wound up in a dive of one, where no one questioned the blood spatter on Skwisgaar. The bartender only eyed him with a raised brow as he ordered a round. They took their beer to a corner booth where instead of drinking his, Skwisgaar began playing his guitar again. Murderface watched his fingers go as he tried the Swedish ale. Not bad. Could be better.

"So what kind of bands am you in? I don'ts do try outs by the way. I can gets in any band by my reputateskin."

"Death metal. We're from Florida. You should come back to America with us."

Murderface brought a fist down onto the table. "You never offered _me_ to be in your band!"

"Because I already have a bassist and you're not special enough to boot him out."

"But I can play with my hog!"

"And he can play with his fingers."

Skwisgaar laughed. "Aw, don't takes it personslies. Not everyone can be a talentsged musgiskins. Ams okay to cries about dat."

"Schut it, Blondie."

"I woulds kill myselfs, personallys."

"How about we schettle this outschide? Then we'll schee who'sch laughing."

"Bring it, crybaby."

"Cool it," Nathan directed at Murderface before he could jump up and drag Skwisgaar out onto the sidewalk by his hair. "We're not here to fight. I want to talk about music shit."

"Ja." Skwisgaar commenced to ignore Murderface. "What bands am has you beens in—?"

"Skwisgaar!"

The bartender yelled something in Swedish at the little kid coming their way, pale blue eyes wide and shoulder-length brown hair framing a relieved grin. Skwisgaar switched back to Swedish until his confusion cleared up, then he looked back at Nathan once the bartender approached in a threatening manner. "If you woulds excuse me, I has somet'ing to attends to."

"You're coming back, right?"

"Ja. Just a minute."

The little boy followed Skwisgaar back outside. Murderface took his opportunity to lean closer to Nathan. "I don't truscht him, and I don't think you schould either."

"And why not? He's perfectly fine. You saw how he could play. I'd kill to get him in my band."

"You're a real asschole, you know that? You've never even offered to let me in your band—didn't even tell me you _had_ a band!—but you aschked thisch Schwedish dildo before you even knew hisch name!"

"It's all about talent, Murderface. I know what I want my band to sound like."

Skwisgaar came back inside, with the boy on his heels. He gabbled with the bartender and seemed to strike a deal since the kid came over to sit with them. He shied away from the Americans, Murderface especially after he shot him a stink-eye, but was pretty happy to sit next to the pompous blond.

"Brother?" Nathan asked.

"Just a friends who wasn't am supposed to even _bes_ here, today." Skwisgaar peered indicatively at the kid, who obviously didn't understand a single word of English. "Name ams Toki. But whats was we talking about? Oh yeah, tells me about yous band."

"It's called Regurgitated and Re-Eaten. I'm the lead singer and I manage, all that bullshit."

"I haves never heard of you. But then agains, I don't liskens to much American metals. It am is missings somet'ing what my ear like."

"We could change that. Merge what we do."

"I woulds have to hear what you am like forst. I can'ts in good consgince move that fars away if I don't know what I gets myself into."

"I don't have any demos with me, but I do got this." Nathan slid his notebook across the table. "They're just lyrics, but obviously you know how to write music and you probably prefer to do that part of it. I'd leave it to you. I'm comfortable with that."

Skwisgaar flipped through the pages, stopping when Toki's face lit up and he pointed at Facebones. Skwisgaar hushed him in a language he understood, so while Skwisgaar stumbled over the English lyrics the kid quietly looked at Nathan's doodles. He didn't seem fazed at all by the more brutal ones, like of a woman with tentacles emerging from her snatch. Even the corner of Skwisgaar's mouth twitched upward when he saw it.

"I like it. It ams good ideas, but I don't know thats I should be movingks across the ocean on such a whims." Skwisgaar handed the notebook back. "Maybe I takes a water check?"

"A what?"

"T'inks about it laters."

Nathan's shoulders sagged, but Murderface couldn't be happier. "How 'bout I give you my phone number? You change your mind, you give me a call. Got my own place with an extra room, if you need somewhere to crash."

"Ja, okay."

Nathan ripped out a page of his notebook and dashed down not only his number but his address too, just in case the blond wound up in the country, he said. The little kid nudged Skwisgaar, then whispered something in his ear.

"Toki ams wondering if he can has one of the skull guy pickster."

"Facebones? Yeah, sure."

"Takk," he said when Nathan handed it to him.

"Dat ams mean t'anks you." Skwisgaar stood and slid Nathan's contact information into his pocket. "We shoulds be going. Was am nice to meets you."

"What a dick," Murderface supplied as soon as the blond and his little pal were out of earshot. "You're not scheriouschly conschidering him, are you?"

"What's it to you?"

All in all, Murderface considered his attempt to get Nathan into his band a complete and utter failure. Perhaps he'd finally met someone stubborn enough to be immune to his manipulations. He only hoped that asshole of a guitarist would forget about Nathan, or at least put his jeans through the wash without considering the piece of paper in his pocket. The last thing Murderface needed in his own country, in his own social circle, was such intimidating competition.


	7. 7) Ghost in the Night

SEVEN: GHOST IN THE NIGHT

* * *

Summer waned, as well as the long winter that followed. In the meantime, Skwisgaar moved on to a new band called Smugly Dismissed and rose from the ashes of Fuckface Academy's abrupt end. Tallak wound up right about the consequences of Toki going to Göteburg, even if forbidding the young boy from their presence didn't stop him from managing the trip. Skwisgaar personally took Toki back to Lillehammer, and he hadn't seen him since.

Not for lack of visiting the town. Although the guitarist no longer had business there, someone unexpected kept drawing him back whenever he had a couple free days. Astrid, Tallak's single mother, proved an unlikely mate in the wake of her son's funeral. She liked him to come around because while she no longer had a child, her mothering instinct didn't die with him. Skwisgaar ate his share of baked goods and excellent dinners, something he never got at home. Any confusion or disconcert he experienced the first time he took her to bed got pushed down as far as possible. She remained gentle and sweet, making it easy to forget that Skwisgaar crossed any lines. Neither of them expressed any desire to make it official; Skwisgaar merely suspected that, along with the hole her son left, Astrid relied on him to fill the one claimed by Tallak's father, as well.

On one such trip to Lillehammer, when he poised to stay the weekend plus a couple days, Skwisgaar sat on the edge of Astrid's bed and collected his jeans from the floor. She ran her nails lightly over the small of his back, sending a chill up his spine. "I'll have dinner ready by the time you get back."

"What're you cooking?"

"I took some chicken out, but I'm not sure yet."

"I might be a while, so take your time." Skwisgaar leaned over to kiss her before pulling his sweater back on. "If I stop at the liquor store on my way back, would you want anything?"

"Some wine, I suppose. Surprise me."

Skwisgaar stepped out into the night, breath hanging in the air before him. Even though Toki was somehow connected to the deaths of the entire lineups of Gognugmug and Fuckface Academy, Skwisgaar didn't fear the young boy. He was too nice, too eager, too. . ._innocent_ to kill someone. Not that Toki could be held responsible for Arvid killing himself in the middle of the night or the stage collapsing, which brought Skwisgaar back every time this occupied his mind to the Reverend's wife. She somehow spoke to Arvid telepathically—if he could be believed—and what if, upon finding out where her son had disappeared to, she caused a freak accident in Göteburg?

But then why spare Skwisgaar? Did he just get lucky? Did Toki's fondness and admiration save him? Or was all of this just a coincidence? Skwisgaar didn't believe in Heaven, Hell, or any of their variations, but he couldn't deny something eerie lurking in the background here.

With how often he still visited Lillehammer, Skwisgaar worried about Toki. He should have seen him since last spring. What if Mrs. Wartooth turned her powers against her own son? Would she do that? Toki expressed slight worry on the way home about what his parents might do if they didn't buy his story about heading out into the wilderness on pilgrimage, which was quite unusual for his naivety. How would anyone even know that the young boy disappeared from the face of the earth? No one at any of the bars or record shops Skwisgaar asked around at remembered seeing him, and he didn't even know where to start on tracking down anyone that might have listened to him play his guitar in the street. The only way to know for sure what happened was to visit the Haven.

If Skwisgaar remembered correctly from four years ago, when Arvid abruptly introduced Toki to his life, the congregation met at the church around seven o'clock Sunday evening for mass. He reached it himself at six-thirty, and found a bush to hide in while he waited. All he needed to know was what direction they came from, and that both of Toki's parents showed up. Maybe, if he was lucky, he wouldn't have to take the trek out of town. Toki might tag along.

No, that would be too easy. Mr. and Mrs. Wartooth led the line of cloaked figures into the building, congregating with other groups like their own coming in from the west, north, and south. Without any deliberation, Skwisgaar set off following the well-packed track. He had no idea exactly how far out of Lillehammer Toki lived, but if more than an hour passed with no village, he'd turn back and try again another time.

Forty-five minutes in, he began his ascent on a long hill. Toki mentioned something of the sort and, to concrete Skwisgaar's belief that he arrived, one lone trail of smoke bled skyward. A gust of wind punched him in the chest when he came to the peak. Below, less than twenty houses stood completely dark, all but one. The smoke came from its chimney, and light was visible through one of the windows. As the biggest homestead, it had to belong to the Reverend and his family. Only one way to find out.

The path here had many chances for Skwisgaar to hide if necessary, but the expanse of land before the village was completely open. He skirted across it as quickly as possible, taking cover on a dark side of the house. Once he regained his breath, he crept around and peeked in the window. Any relief he might experience to know that Toki lived was eclipsed by the horror of what he saw.

Toki kneeled in front of the fire, cringing every time the heavily marked skin on his back shifted. One of the fresher cuts released trickles of blood toward his pants. Even reaching back with a rag to stifle it caused the boy pain. With no regard how Toki might accept company or if the boy was truly alone, Skwisgaar let himself in the front door.

Toki sniffled. "H-Hello?"

Skwisgaar's boots echoed as he crossed the kitchen. Toki stood with his shirt over his chest, ready to run when Skwisgaar found him again. Candles threw light onto the Swede's face, softening Toki's.

"What're you doing here?" Toki asked. "You should leave. I'll get in trouble again and I don't know what my parents would do to _you_."

"What time do they get back from church?"

"Not until the middle of the night, sometimes. Sunset, at the earliest."

Skwisgaar sighed. "You're bleeding."

"Oh."

"Do you have a bathroom? You need to dress your back."

"Only an earth closet."

"Then I'll put some water on to boil. It'll get infected if you don't take care of it."

Toki followed Skwisgaar into the kitchen, suddenly a stranger in his own home. He hung forlornly near the door. Although normally Toki possessed a runny mouth for information Skwisgaar didn't care about, now he said nothing. Someone must've shut him up good. "I'm sorry you had to see me."

"Who did that to you?"

"My Papa."

"Why?"

"For going to the festival."

"That was nearly a year ago, Toki."

The young boy nodded miserably. "Every time they get itchy, he opens them all back up. And they took my guitar away. I didn't think they'd care so much, but they think Satan's in me. I'm supposed to be pure for my next birthday, and Papa's scared we're running out of time."

"Fucking hell." Skwisgaar leaned back against the counter. Unlike any other kitchen he'd ever been in, everything was constructed with unfinished wood. It looked more like a workshop. "So that's why you haven't been in town?"

"You've been looking for me?"

"I take a walk anytime I'm there, to see if you're around."

Toki's bottom lip trembled and his eyes filled with tears. Full of pity, Skwisgaar pat him awkwardly on the head rather than push him away when tight arms squeezed his waist. Toki's entire body shook and Skwisgaar soon felt something wet seeping through his shirt. "No one's ever cared this much about me, before. Thank you."

"You're my little friend, right?" Skwisgaar replied. "This is what friends do. Eh. . .how about you get comfortable and I'll clean you up?"

Toki initially didn't like Skwisgaar touching his cuts, but his shame waylaid with gentle coaching from the Swede. His muscles soon relaxed and he rested his chin on the table.

"I've thought a lot, Toki, and there's something I don't understand." Skwisgaar sat on one of the stools behind him. " Is your mother a witch?"

"A witch?" Toki repeated. "No, I don't think so. She's just my normal Mama."

"She can't make things move without touching them, read people's minds, anything like that?"

"If she can, she's never done it with me. I got away a long time with playing metal on my guitar, and the only reason she and Papa found out I went to the festival is because they found the drawing that guy gave me. I had such a fun time there, and I wanted to keep something to remember it. I guess that was pretty stupid, huh?"

"Don't call yourself stupid. You should be allowed to do things like that."

"But I lied to them. I deserved all this."

"You didn't deserve anything, so stop it. They might think you did, but it's not true. Who or what exactly does your church worship, anyway? Why is it so secretive?"

Toki sniffled all over again. "I'm not actually in the church yet. I'm not let in until I'm fifteen, and then something big's going to happen."

"Like what?"

"I'm not sure. You see, we haven't always lived here. I was born in Lillehammer. My Papa used to drink a lot and Mama liked to gamble. They finally had me and when I was born on the winter solstice, my Papa was visited in the night by an angel that revealed to him the truth. So they abandoned everything and moved back here. Everyone's converted, since then."

"To what, exactly?"

"I won't know until my birthday, but Papa promised he'll tell me everything. It's going to be a very important day. That's what Lucifer said."

Skwisgaar paused in dabbing Toki's back. "What did you just say?"

"Lucifer came to Papa in a dream and told him the truth about the Heavens and Hell. Yahweh rules his Heaven, but he's not very nice, and Satan rules Hell. They're actually pretty good pals. But Lucifer, when he rebelled against Yahweh, he founded his own Heaven. And that's the one my Papa's going to get us into. He can hear Lucifer almost all the time, you know. It's like someone whispering in the other room, he says.

"But I don't think Papa is doing right by him. Lucifer questioned Yahweh and left, and I question my Papa. Is that really such a bad thing? Papa has turned into Yahweh trying to be good by Lucifer. I'm the only one that sees it, I think, but I'm too scared to tell him."

"You know what I think you should do?"

"What?"

"I think you should come with me and get _out_ of this place."

"I don't know how. I need to stay, otherwise how will everyone else get into Heaven? They need me."

"Toki, if I told you something, would you at least consider the possibility?"

"Like what?"

"That there is no Heaven or Hell, no God, Satan, or Lucifer. None of them exist. They were created by man and handed down through the generations in order to help people civilize and moralize themselves."

Toki shook his head adamantly. "Nej, you're wrong. Lucifer is real. I never would've gotten to Göteburg if he didn't watch over me."

"You've grown up in a cult. This isn't even a religion. No god ever wants their children to be hurt like this."

"Sometimes the ends justify the means. You're lying! Lucifer speaks to my father, you can't explain that!"

"Sometimes people just hear voices in their head. It's an illness, like when your nose runs and you get a cough. It's just something not working right."

"He's not crazy."

"How would you ever know the difference?" Skwisgaar kept on when Toki didn't reply. "There's a whole world out there, Toki. There's so much more that you could be doing. Haven't you missed playing your guitar? Wouldn't you like to be able to do whatever you wanted, whenever you want?"

"My Mama and Papa did that, they left here for a while, but all they found were demons."

"You can always come back, if you want."

"Then why bother leaving?"

"So that you won't wonder what could have happened, in your life. To see what else you can do. To have fun. Then, if you come back, you'll know _you_ made the decision, not your parents."

"But they'd be so mad. What about my birthday?"

"What about it? What's so special about fifteen?"

Toki shrugged.

"If something's meant to happen on your fifteenth birthday, it'll find a way to happen. Maybe you're meant to leave before that. You never know. If there's some sort of fate there, then you can't really escape it, can you?"

"I guess not. . ."

"So come with me. I have my own place in Göteburg. You can sleep on the couch. It's not much, but it's better than this. We'll find you a new guitar to play and you can go to any shows you like."

"If I go I won't ever be able to come back. They'll never speak to me again."

"Would that really be such a bad thing?"

"They're my parents, Skwisgaar! How would you like it if yours never spoke to you?"

"I would love it if my mom stayed out of my business forever, and I never knew my dad anyway."

"I don't understand how you can say that."

"Maybe you're just not old enough to get it, now. When I was about your age, I realized my mom wasn't some holy lady that could never make a single mistake. She's just human, and so are _your_ parents. They screw up sometimes. They still think that dreams have meaning, like your dad."

"But maybe, if all that you're saying is true, nothing will happen on my birthday, the church will go away, and then we'll just be normal again."

"I wouldn't count on it. Lots of churches predict the end of the world and then when it doesn't happen they just figure they read something wrong."

"Then what's the harm in staying? If something's going to happen, I don't want to miss it. You don't get it, Skwisgaar. Lucifer is my whole life. I live here because of him. I pray to him all the time. He's real, he _has_ to be."

Skwisgaar sighed inaudibly. Just like any other religion, no matter how backwards. "If that's what you want to believe, then. But answer me this: if he does exist and your dad is somehow living wrong by him, then what?"

"How can he be? He's in direct contact with him."

"Then why won't he let you listen to metal?"

"Because Satan and Lucifer are completely different people. Don't you get it?" Now Toki grew short with Skwisgaar. "You must have a sad life, not believing in anything. I can't imagine walking through the forest and seeing such a cold world. How can you want to live when there's nothing after you die? Then what's the point?"

"That's the point. There _is_ no point. It takes a long time to accept that, though. You will, eventually."

"Maybe my dad is right. Maybe you _are_ Satan."

"Your dad's nuts."

"And why not? It makes sense to me. You just show up here in the middle of the night, you actually want to be my friend even though you're famous and could have any friend in the whole world, you play guitar like I want to play guitar, and you're pushing me to leave everything behind. Doesn't that sound like the devil?"

"It sounds like the stupidest thing I ever heard."

"See! Exactly what Satan would say!" Toki recoiled from Skwisgaar's touch. "I think you should leave. If I don't want you in my house anymore, I can make you go away just by saying so. That's the law, in your world."

"In my world, I'm just a guy from Sweden who plays guitar and is trying to look out for you. Doesn't it make sense that your dad would pit you against me? He probably thinks I'm the one that led you astray, right?"

"Only Satan would know he told me that!" Pain erupted through Skwisgaar's jaw as Toki's fist connected with it. Unable to breathe as his back hit the floor flat, Skwisgaar tried to roll away from the young boy's panic. He completely underestimated how strong he was, although his muscles should've given indication. Of course, he considered himself safe when he arrived here, thanks to Toki's prior admiration. He tasted blood and pulled up into a ball, waiting for the pummelling strikes to end.

Toki stood, winded, over Skwisgaar. The Swede flinched when Toki reached for him, then struggled to his feet. "Ja, sure. I'll leave. Fuck you, Toki. I only tried to help."

"Skwisgaar—"

"Get out of my way!"

"I'm sorry. You can't. . .I wouldn't have been able to hit you, if you were—"

"I don't even care, anymore. Have fun, being their punching bag. I'm outta here." Skwisgaar seemed to walk through molasses as Toki held onto his leg. He fell over again when the Norwegian slid down to his ankle. "Let go of me. I'm leaving."

"Don't go! You're the only friend I've ever had, and you don't know what it's _like_ here." Toki trembled. "I'm such a bad boy, filled up with so much sin, and my Papa. . .he hurt me so much."

Skwisgaar tried to shake Toki off, but when he looked down all he saw was a pathetic little kid that just suffered a year of intense physical, emotional, and spiritual abuse. Churches safe-guarded against truth-bearers like himself, so how could Toki believe any differently from what his father literally whipped into him? His face didn't hurt so much anymore when he saw that Toki's wounds had reopened during their struggle. "I'm leaving, so if you want to get your shit together and come, then you'd better do it now."

"I still don't know if I want to go. But you're my friend, and I want to keep it that way."

"Whatever." Skwisgaar yanked his foot from Toki's crushing clasp. "Ja, maybe we'll still be friends. None of my friends have ever beat me up before, though."

"I said I was sorry!"

"I really don't even care at this point." Skwisgaar grabbed his jacket off the table and headed for the door. Unfortunately, a stomach-dropping sight halted him.

Fuck. Looked like church let out a lot sooner than either he or Toki expected.

"Hide!" Toki pulled Skwisgaar away from the door and ushered him down the hallway. Without a closet in his room, Toki encouraged Skwisgaar in rapid whispers onto the floor. When the blond pressed himself against the wall under his bed, Toki ran back out to resume the position Skwisgaar found him in. All the Swede could hear was his pounding heart and rushed breath. He knew the punishment for messing with Toki's path to righteousness. All he could do now was hope Mrs. Wartooth was indeed not a witch, lest her cold heart seek him out.

Voices became audible beyond Toki's fervent prayer, then footsteps echoed on the kitchen door steps. Toki didn't stop praying, nor did he get up to greet them.

"Amen," Toki tied off. Skwisgaar strained to hear. "I did my chores and all my prayers."

"Good," his father replied. Mrs. Wartooth shuffled about in the kitchen. "Are you ready?"

"J-ja."

The kitchen door opened and closed again, leaving a terrified Skwisgaar alone with Toki's mother. Any moment now, she'd come yank him out from under the bed and kill him before her husband and son returned. However, instead, water boiled again and she tended to hot tea, most likely. Didn't she sense an intruder?

Toki and the Reverend returned about ten minutes later. The young boy tried to stay strong, but Skwisgaar heard the slightest tremble that could only mean his father whipped him again. Another silent hour passed, then Mrs. Wartooth spoke. "It's bedtime, Toki. I'll come say your prayers with you."

Skwisgaar curled up closer to the wall and bit down on his fingers. Maybe he could attack her and run while her stunned husband looked on. Take Toki, that way. He certainly couldn't leave him, not to live another day like this. Could it work? Would he get away through a forest they probably knew like the back of their hands? Who would come find Skwisgaar, when he disappeared like that? Astrid had no idea where he went. Maybe. . .maybe he should wait. . .

Toki's knobbly knees and a pair obscured by a navy cloak situated less than three feet away from Skwisgaar. They must be able to hear him breathing, no chance otherwise. Toki stood first after the amen and the bed frame creaked under his weight. His mother sat on the edge.

"He's close to forgiving you, your father says. Then it can stop."

"I couldn't be more sorry, Mama."

"I know. As soon as Lucifer realizes that, we won't have to do it anymore."

How dare they make Toki _thank_ them for ceasing their whippings? Skwisgaar nearly grabbed Mrs. Wartooth in his sudden anger, but clenched his hands instead. Once she left the room, Skwisgaar knocked quietly against the bedspring. Toki returned his acknowledgement. Stubby little fingers hung over the bed's edge, but Skwisgaar still didn't dare move. Above, Toki's breath grew more laboured and he sniffled.

When moonlight came in through the window, Toki crept down to the floor and peered in at Skwisgaar. "I think they're asleep. Come on."

They snuck out of the room toward the kitchen. Toki opened the door and Skwisgaar passed, but the boy didn't budge further. "Aren't you coming?"

Toki shook his head. "I already told you, I can't. But you need to go before they find you. Maybe we'll see each other again?"

Desperation in Toki's tone caused Skwisgaar to lie. "Ja, I think we will. Be safe, okay Toki?"

He ran for tree cover, unwilling to look back. He only hoped any of their movements hadn't woken the Wartooths and subscribed Toki to another year of pain. The boy already fell apart. He didn't need anything else piled on.

"Jesus Christ, where have you been?" Astrid secured the knot on her housecoat as she opened the door for Skwisgaar. "I've been so worried! It's nearly one o'clock!"

The trek back hadn't been easy. Skwisgaar stepped off the trail often, leading to muddy boots and hair snagged in branches. He shivered, even with his jacket. "Just. . .got off track, I guess."


	8. 8) And So it Begins

EIGHT: AND SO IT BEGINS

* * *

Although aware he dreamed, Nathan couldn't force himself awake. He continued swimming through the long, tight tunnel, surfacing again in the cave. He came alone this time—no team, and no Special Agent. Rather than darkness, the cavern illuminated from the area with the paintings. However, between here and there, a tall man with long white hair stood.

"You don't remember me," he spoke in an airy tone. "But I remember you. . ."

Nathan opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, reminding himself that a couple years passed since he served in the Middle East. Oddly enough, he never had nightmares about the usual stuff, like any doctor ever warned him about, but these weird dreams came often enough that he couldn't quit forget about them. He hated the feeling that came with, like he'd stepped into another room and forgot what he looked for.

"Hey man. How'sch it goin'?" Murderface already lounged in front of the television, indulging in the Discovery Channel's 48th Anniversary Special on the Normandy landings. "Look like you had a fight with a bear."

"Shitty dreams," Nathan grumbled. He plopped down on the couch with a beer. "Shouldn't you, uh. . .remember, we talked about this. You were going to practice extra hard for our show tonight, rather than watch this."

"I ran out of tapesch to record it, though! And I'm practicing on the commercshalsch, anyway."

"Hm." Murderface's bass hung around his neck, more than likely forgotten. "Magnus and Lawrence are going to be here at two. So you'd better be ready for it."

Nathan downed his beer to quell his headache, then got up intended for the shower. He stopped at the answering machine on his way through the kitchen, attracted by the blinking light. "_'Good morning sweetheart, it's your mother. Just wanted to touch base with you before your big show tonight. Call me and let me know if you wanted to come for dinner beforehand, or if I should just put some soup in a container and drop it off for you. Love you, bye.'_"

"What kind of schoup did sche make?" Murderface called from the other room.

"I dunno." Nathan deleted the message. Why did his mother have to do this? He was a grown man capable of taking care of himself. What he should do was change the number and not tell her, then maybe she wouldn't clog up the machine so much. He bought it intended to keep track of who called to offer Dethklok gigs, not so that his mother could further smother him with her hospitality.

Lawrence showed up while Nathan washed and found a place with Murderface in the living room. They both crossed their arms and discussed the tactics on-screen, Lawrence's pinned pant-leg folded between his knee and the cushion. He got sick of Nathan and Murderface staring at his stump.

"Magnus is late again," he needlessly pointed out.

"Scho irreschponschible," Murderface quipped. His amp crackled as he plugged his bass in, downstairs. "If he doesch't schmarten up, we'll be looking for two guitarischts all over again."

"Not your say," Nathan reminded him, even though he agreed. He came away from the Marines more obsessed about punctuality than when he went in. Living with Murderface helped lax that up a bit, but shit like this always reminded him of one of his pet peeves.

"Sorry I'm late, dudes." Magnus sauntered in.

"Whatever. Just get ready to play."

The first song started off sloppily as Murderface, Lawrence, and Magnus struggled to catch each other's rhythms. Nathan never worried about warm up or practice on his part, since the nature of his vocal cords allowed him to merely raise his voice and achieve what so many other death metal vocalists worked for years to get right. He went onto autopilot and listened to what the other guys did. Murderface played lazily, and while Lawrence was enthusiastic, his lack of a second foot inhibited his ability completely to do blast beats. Although Magnus was talented with his instrument, he tried too often to influence Nathan's lyrics and couldn't play as technically as he'd otherwise boast. Not that they were a bad band. Really, they dominated the Tampa Bay Area even with their minor setbacks. It helped that Nathan strove to be different than any of the other dildos competing for the spotlight and record label attention.

Murderface glanced at the clock when they finished the setlist prepared for that evening. "And with time to schpare. What time isch your mom coming over with that schoup?"

"I dunno. Never called her back."

"Well, you schould! I'm getting hungry!"

Nathan ignored Murderface and headed upstairs. Now came the restless obsession. While his band mates caught the end of the marathon on TV, he sat at the kitchen table with a new beer and poured over the setlist. Maybe it ought to be moved around a bit. They couldn't put too many hard-hitting tracks in a row, otherwise the audience would grow numb to it, and if they played too many easy-listening tracks (a relative term, in the death metal scene), then the audience would get the wrong idea about them.

A knock came at the door. Murderface hadn't ordered a pizza, since he didn't loiter around the foyer for the last ten minutes, so Nathan got up to answer. More than likely, another noise complaint.

"Hello, my dear."

". . .Mom, what're you doing here?"

"You never called back and your father and I had nothing else to do today, so we thought we'd come early into the city." Oscar waved from the front seat of the car. "Why don't you get dressed and we'll take you out for lunch?"

Nathan thought long and hard of all the things he'd rather do, then how much guilt he'd be subjected to if he used any of them as an excuse. Oh well. . .he hadn't seen his dad in a little while. "I guess so."

"Who'sch at the door?" Murderface asked as Nathan pulled his boots on. "Where're you going? Are you going to get food? Oh, hi, Mrsch. Exploschion!"

"Hello, William. How're you?"

"I heard you were bringing schoup?"

"Oh. . .not today. Oscar and I are taking Nathan out, instead."

Murderface resorted to mumbling under his breath, shoulders hunched. Relieved to leave them all alone for a little while, Nathan scrunched up in the backseat of his parents' car.

"Your house sure is looking messy, again. You must not get much time to clean, do you?"

"I clean up after myself. It's Murderface that lives like a pig." Not that it mattered. They lived in a dump of a house, complete with leaky ceilings and a crack dealer on the corner. Name was Frank, nice guy. Sometimes Nathan came home and Murderface invited him in for a drink. Not that either of them really cared for what he made his living with.

"Oh, you shouldn't call him that. It's not nice to make fun of peoples' appearances. He can't help it."

"That's his real name, Mom."

"I refuse to believe that."

Rose chose a small cafe chock full of old people. Nathan turned sideways to get around the tiny tables and deaf women unaware that they should pull their chairs in, and chose the corner seat. If anyone he knew saw him here, he'd lose all credibility in the music scene. His mother's overbearing nature didn't help, already. At least living an hour away and playing late gigs kept her from coming to every show. Nathan only told her about as many as he needed to for her to believe he did all right financially.

Apparently he'd neglected that too much lately, because Rose regarded him with her usual look of worry. "Have you been okay, lately? We don't hear from you very much anymore."

"Just busy."

"You haven't told us about many shows."

"There's been a couple. You don't need to be at every single one."

Rose's expression mirrored his. "You're sure a crankypants today."

Nathan leaned forward on the table, hands covering his ears. He respected his mother enough not to hurt her feelings, but why couldn't she get the gist that at twenty-one years old, he wanted to live his life independently? A metal concert wasn't the second grade play. His parents didn't need to hover around the back and tell anyone that would listen that their boy was the one screaming at the mosh pit to get fucking crazy.

"Any luck finding a job?" Oscar contributed to the conversation.

"Not looking for one."

"Why not? You could work anywhere you like. You're a vet."

"I already have a job." Nathan needn't remind them he didn't finish high school, so having served his country didn't exactly matter. "And I like it. I make enough."

"Yes, but this has been the last two years of your life. Isn't there a point where the fun's over and you move on?"

"If there is, I'm not there yet."

"When you get closer to your thirties, you're going to realize that being in a band is only suitable as a hobby. Or god, I _hope_ you realize it before then." Oscar shuddered. "Vet or not, you'd have no resume."

"Being a vet's not that important, dad. There are other things that people look at, that I don't got."

"Aw, don't get down on yourself like that." Rose pat his arm. "You're a wonderful young man with something to contribute."

"Yeah, to flipping burgers."

"Why didn't you stay in the Marines? You could've made a career out of that. You were still needed in the Middle East, or you could've gone to Somalia. It's never too late."

"Maybe, if this doesn't work out."

"And what counts as not working out? You make enough money to survive, sure, but what about in the long term? You can't make music for a living. Only people like Sting get to do that."

"I don't want to have this conversation again."

Rose walked Nathan to the door when they got back to his house and, much to his dismay, gave him a hug. "Don't fret about what your father says. I don't think you're completely lost. You should do what you love, and so long as you don't mind how you live, then what can either of us tell you?"

"Thanks." Despite her nice words, Nathan didn't believe his mother completely understood. He never worried about his future, because he knew deep in his heart that one day his name would be famous. He'd never have to worry about money, retirement, or anything else a regular jack-off would. All he needed was one stroke of luck, when someone from a record label happened to be at one of his shows.

Armed with that determination, Nathan did his best to instill it in his bandmates before the show. Murderface and Lawrence only played because they enjoyed it, but Nathan found a peer of sorts in Magnus. He was the only one that didn't grumble about wearing corpse paint, something Nathan saw on a couple bands while in Gothenburg. Too bad he couldn't pick anything else up there, like guitarists. More than likely, Skwisgaar forgot about him by then. Likewise, Nathan had to work really hard to recall the Swede's odd name.

"Just put on a good show," Nathan reminded them all. "Never know who's out there, so let's fucking murder this set."

He ignored the nagging little thought that his mother and father stood out in the crowd and launched into the show no differently than if they happened to not be there. Blood Puke started off their set, then Accidentally Ate my Intestines, Shoot Your Face, Diesel and Nails for Breakfast, and Drowning in Blood followed. The mosh pit lasted all throughout, with more bruised and bloody faces coming up after every song. Die for Dethklok, the final song, threw them into overdrive. At the end, when Nathan turned to leave the stage, he heard some guy holler about dying in the front row, then Nathan tensed with a loud popping noise he grew familiar with from his tour overseas. Rather than dropping, like Murderface, he turned around and sought out the soul so desperate for his attention. Most of the show-goers retreated, but one person hung near the front. His jaw hung on at one side, the bullet having shredded his tongue. With Nathan's undivided attention, the man raised his gun again and this time shot the bullet through his brain. Like rain, something splashed against Nathan's cheek. He wiped it off, expecting to find blood, but found brain matter instead.

Brutal.

"I'm fine." Nathan batted away a paramedic with yet another blanket. The other three band members took one, although Murderface mirrored Nathan's apathy. Lawrence lightly shook and Magnus rubbed his hands compulsively. The most Nathan did since being ushered from the building was wash his face.

Rose came alone to check on her son. More than likely, Oscar couldn't get back out of the vehicle. Unlike Nathan, his father reacted terribly to loud noises. It couldn't help that, unlike the fireworks their neighbours let off throughout the year, this was an actual gun. "How're you doing?"

"Fine."

"Really? Nathan, you could've just been killed."

"Not like I never been that close to a gun before."

"Don't talk like that."

Nathan shrugged.

"You need to change your shirt. You're still. . .speckled."

"I'll do it when I get home."

"You must be in shock."

"Really, Mom. I'm fine."

"I just don't understand. Why go somewhere to kill yourself? It doesn't make any sense. And it wasn't like he tried to ruin your show. He waited until after, yelling about dying for Dethklok. . .maybe you shouldn't play that song anymore?"

"I'll play whatever songs I like."

"This is going to be the PMRC all over again, if you aren't careful."

"Fuck that shit. It's not like we were serious. We can't be held accountable for anyone that actually kills themselves for us. That person's a fucking idiot."

"Nathan, watch your language!"

Nathan agreed to his mother's face not to play that song again, but it remained in the setlist for the next show. Not that she would know—after the way that night turned out, Rose and Oscar never came out to see his band play again.


End file.
